


la petite muse

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Series: the playwright and his muse [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, river is too inspiring for her own good, twelve is a grumpy writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John looks down at the last letter, ready to toss it in along with the others. The unfamiliar handwriting gives him pause. </p><p>Melody Pond<br/>46 St. Giles Street, West End<br/>London</p><p>Odd name. Probably just another critic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. morning passages

**Author's Note:**

> For the R/D Ficathon. 
> 
> Prompt: Odette Toulemonde AU: River is a forty-something widow, working in a shoe store by day, making dresses for historical plays by night. Her son Rory is an air-headed nurse, her daughter Amy struggling to get out of teenage years. Her life is unremarkable, but her imagination and bright outlook on everything makes her a haven for discouraged souls. Like Twelve, a famous author who lost the spark and the critic’s approbation. He stumbles upon the letter of one of his fans, River, and reads and re-reads her fond words until he exhausts their power. At the end of his rope and lost, he decides to find more of them where the words came from and ends up on her doorstep, seeking comfort.
> 
> I changed some things from the original prompt but it’s ultimately the same setup. Takes place in the late 1800s. Chapter title from the instrumental by Philip Glass.

_With his most recent undertaking, Smith proves once and for all that he is a fraud - an inept con artist disguising himself as a mad genius. He is worthy of neither our praise nor his fame. Let us hope that his newest foray into theatre is also his last and Smith will fade away into obscurity where he belongs. His blank sheets of paper will better serve him as kindling and grace the theatre with ample room for playwrights who deserve our attention._

 

The reviews had come in only two days ago but John has every scathing word of the Daily Telegraph burned into his memory. He could recite it with his eyes shut and frequently does. It’s hardly his first bad review. One must develop a thick skin when one decides to take up the life of a playwright. No matter how successful, there is always someone who sees through the bollocks and grasps right at the heart of one’s greatest fear - that you are nothing. A talentless hack who managed to get so far in life by sheer luck alone.

 

This is merely the first time he has believed them.

 

Hunkered down at the heavy oak desk in his study - the one he barely uses because he much prefers to do his writing in the park - John reads the crumpled newspaper once more, tightening his grip around his tumbler of brandy. “A fraud,” he mutters, frowning at the page. “Fade into obscurity where he belongs…” He harrumphs, takes a long pull from his glass, and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his silk dressing gown. “Kindling. Ha!”

 

Bloody vipers, the lot of them.

 

He never listens to a word the critics have to say. His goal has never been to please them. He writes for himself most of all, but secondly and perhaps most importantly, he writes for his audience. He writes for the people who are willing to sit for hours just to watch his words come to life. He writes for the people who light up when the curtains rise and who leap to their feet with thunderous applause at the final call. He writes because love for his plays has always felt a bit like love for him. It’s all he has ever really had.

 

As far as he has ever been concerned, the critics could hang.

 

Except this time they happen to be right.

 

They’ve been right for a while.

 

He has watched over the years as even his audiences lost their enthusiasm for his work. He used to love standing backstage during opening night, peering around the curtains and watching their reactions, waiting with his heart fluttering like a mad bird against his rib cage for them to smile, for their eyes to light up, for the delighted whispers and gasps to reach his ears. He would close his eyes and drink in the applause like inspiration. With each and every play, the spark in the eyes of his audiences has faded. From behind the curtain, he has witnessed blank faces and sighs of boredom. The idle tap-tapping of fingers against armrests, waiting for the end.

 

They have grown bored of his work. Bored of him.

 

Even John has grown bored of himself.

 

And so what is the point of it all?

 

He swirls the last of his brandy around in the bottom of his glass, sneers at the newspaper shouting his failure to the world, and knocks back the rest of the liquor. It burns his throat but he doesn’t cough, roughly pushing aside the newspaper as he stands, swaying a bit on unsteady feet. He rounds his ill-used desk and begins to navigate the disaster his study - nay, his entire sumptuous townhouse - has become. Since the release of the reviews, he hasn’t bothered with much of anything and that includes getting dressed, bathing, or cleaning up after himself.

 

He steps over a tray of food Clara had left for him yesterday and nearly trips over the pile of books next to it. Biting back a curse, John kicks the books out of the way, stubs his toe on the thick binding of one of them, and hisses, “Buggering hell.” He almost drops his empty glass but it’s the last one - he threw the others against the wall when the reviews first came out two days ago - and he isn’t quite pathetic enough to drink straight from the decanter just yet.

 

Or maybe…

 

He stops in front of the bar car and considers for a long moment, holding up his glass and eyeing the brandy bottle. Perhaps not yet. If he drops the glass, he still has the bottle. If he drops the bottle, however, no more brandy. It’s a thought he can’t quite stomach. He pours himself another drink.

 

_Fade into obscurity where he belongs…_

 

Perhaps it _is_ where he belongs. He should do them all a bloody great favor and disappear.

 

John considers his glass. He could drink himself to death, he supposes. It would be the more enjoyable way to end things now that he has nothing to live for but an empty London townhouse. It might take a touch longer than he’s willing to wait, however. Not to mention it’s a bit undignified as far as suicides go. He has always been the mean, sloppy sort of drunk. Clara would say he’s already mean and sloppy without the help of alcohol but Clara can sod off.

 

He sips his brandy and eyes the balcony doors, latched shut against the bustling noise of London below. The railing on the balcony is steady enough. He takes a step toward it, pondering what it might feel like to balance precariously over the city streets, to feel the wind in his gray hair and have one last look at it all before he lets go. The fall would be exhilarating but the end… no, too messy.

 

He sighs and steps away from the balcony doors, tapping his fingers against his chin in quiet contemplation. If he were killing a character in one of his plays, how would he do it? The world is a stage, after all. He is merely a player and it is long past time for his exit.

 

John wanders to his desk and sets aside his drink, contemplating the silk belt of his dressing gown. He tugs and it slides from its loops, drooping in his hand and brushing the floor. Wrapping both ends around each of his palms, he pulls and feels satisfied when it doesn’t tear. Strong but still extravagant enough to make a statement.

 

Hanging himself with silk.

 

That’ll certainly get the Telegraph talking.

 

He tips his head back to study the ceiling and nods. The chandelier will work nicely. He’ll just step off the edge of his desk and have done with it. Perching on the edge of the desk for a moment, John pats it with a muttered, “Finally found a bloody use for you.”

 

He starts working the belt of his dressing gown into a noose and he’s absolutely shite at knots but he’s fairly certain he’s managed a decent one when he hears footsteps on the stairs - small, rapid footsteps that usually prelude a visit from his housekeeper. Well, he calls her his housekeeper. Clara insists on referring to herself as his minder.

 

With a sigh, John tosses the noose behind his desk where she won’t see it and picks up his drink again, waiting for her to barge in without knocking like she always does. She doesn’t disappoint him, bustling in with her usual bubbly energy that sets his teeth on edge. “Brought you tea,” she says, carrying another tray in with her. “Not that you ate the last meal I carried up here to you. Or even said thank you. But don’t worry. I like slaving away over a hot stove all day for paltry pay and no gratitude.” She picks her way through the broken glass and books on the floor with a disapproving purse of her lips, setting the tray of food down on his desk with a noisy clatter. “You’re welcome.”

 

He frowns at her, cradling his drink in the palm of his hand. “I pay you plenty.”

 

“Oh, it speaks.” Clara lifts an eyebrow, settling a hand on her hip. “I was beginning to wonder.”

 

“Get out.”

 

She snorts and wanders around the room picking up after him, her heavy skirts trailing the floor as she stacks books into her arms, carrying them to their proper shelves. “I’m not picking up the glass. You’re doing it.”

 

“Fine.” He’ll do no such thing but since he’s going to hang himself the moment she leaves, he sees no reason to be disagreeable. “Now will you go away?”

 

Clara sighs, turning from his bookshelves with a hopeful smile. “Got something that might cheer you up.”

 

“Oh?” He takes another swig of brandy. “Find my talent lying about somewhere, did you?”

 

She huffs, reaching into one of the deep pockets of her apron to pull out a stack of envelopes. “The post was just delivered and I thought you might like to spend the afternoon replying to your letters. Mr. Wilde wrote you and I know how much you enjoy a good argument with him.”

 

He snatches the letters from her grasp, muttering a thank you when she glares. “Is that all?”

 

“Clean up the glass, please. And maybe get dressed. Have you even bathed since Tuesday?”

 

John narrows his eyes at her.

 

She sighs, reaches out a small hand to touch his arm and looks at him with wide brown eyes that she should really get under control. Properly massive, those eyes. “It’s going to be fine, you know. Your next play will be brilliant and everyone will forget all about this one.”

 

He manages a thin, brittle smile for her sake and nods. “Of course.”

 

Squeezing his arm, Clara spares him one last glance and leaves him alone, gently shutting the door behind her. He waits until he hears her footsteps on the stairs before he glances down at the envelopes in his hand. Might as well have a look before he goes. He scans the front of each envelope as he walks toward the fire burning in the hearth across the room. Oscar Wilde - he’ll just want to gloat about John’s failure. He’s in no mood. He tosses that one into the fireplace and watches it burn.

 

The next two are correspondence from his impresario, no doubt fretting over the failure of his latest investment. John throws both of them into the fire too. The last thing he wants to think about is how much he has let down Lethbridge - the man who always put far too much faith in him and his work. And look how that faith has been repaid. With a flop.

 

Scowling to himself, John looks down at the last letter, ready to toss it in along with the others. The unfamiliar handwriting gives him pause.

 

_Melody Pond_

_46 St. Giles Street, West End_

_London_

 

Odd name. Probably just another critic.

 

He walks back to his desk and reaches for his letter opener, tearing open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside. It’s only a page, written in careful, neat penmanship. The parchment itself smells faintly of dust. Intrigued, John unfolds the page and sinks into the chair behind his desk, letting his eyes scan the missive.

 

_Mr. Smith,_

_You don’t know me but I know you. I help sew the costumes for your plays. It’s tedious work that pays very little but I enjoy it. It allows me as close to your work as I’ll likely ever be. I can’t afford a ticket to your shows, but I stay late every evening to listen to rehearsals._

_I like to think that each of us, sometimes without being aware, bring hope into at least one life in the span of our own. I’d wager you bring more hope than most. You entertain, Mr. Smith. We are all each of us leading our own mundane little lives filled with stresses and illnesses, eager to escape if only for a while. Eager to forget. Every time I linger behind the curtains and listen to your play rehearsals, you help me forget. Every time the theatre is packed with people there to watch your stories play out in front of them, you’re helping them too. You give hope to so many just by putting your pen to paper._

_I am not a writer, Mr. Smith, but in light of recent reviews, I thought it might be best to remind you that you are. You are a valuable, important part of this world. Particularly mine._

_Yours,_

_Melody Pond_

 

Slowly, John lets the page slip from his fingers and flutter to the desk. It lands on top of the Telegraph review and he swallows, brushing it aside to stare down at the caustic words once again.

 

 _Fraud_.

 

 _Worthy of neither praise nor fame_.

 

He blinks. Funny, reading it doesn’t feel like the punch in the stomach it had only a few minutes ago. He reads the review again just to be sure, reaching blindly for his brandy. It still stings. Every single word makes him flinch and want to throw another glass at the wall. But his silk noose is lying on the floor at his feet and he has no desire to pick it up and loop it around the chandelier.

 

Stunned, John picks up the letter again and rereads it with the mad fervor of one on the edge. He reaches the end, the elegantly scrawled _Melody Pond_ , and feels a reluctant grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. It’s impossible to stifle so he doesn’t try. He sets aside the letter and finishes his brandy slowly, smiling all the while.

 

When the glass is empty, he reaches once more for the letter and reads it. Again. Just once more. And then slowly, with a hand that he’ll never admit trembles ever so slightly, he reaches for his quill pen. And he writes.

 

By the wee hours of the morning, his back aches from bending over his desk, the pads of his fingers burn from candle wax, and his hand is sore from gripping his pen but never once does he think of going to bed. He writes instead. He writes pages and pages of quite possibly his best work in years. The words come so fast and so fluidly he cannot move his hand across the page fast enough. They pour out of him as easily as breath from his lungs and for the first time in years, he feels the return of that elusive spark.

 

John is not a man easily besotted. In fact, he has never been besotted a day in his life. The closest he has ever come is Clara and quite honestly, it’s more of a vaguely terrified fondness than anything else - something like he imagines the owner of a rabid cat might feel. He is a tetchy old man set in his ways, more in love with the written word than any woman. Words are everything. How can a woman compare to that?

 

_A valuable, important part of this world. Particularly mine._

 

But this woman… He stares at the letter in his hands as dawn approaches over the London skyline, the page crinkled with use already and the ink faded and smeared like it has aged a lifetime overnight. Melody Pond’s words are seared onto his memory now and branded onto his heart, obscuring even the most hateful critical slights.

 

_Particularly mine._

 

The words have nearly exhausted their power now, running through his mind over and over again like a ditty he’ll never get out of his head. He needs more of them. He craves her words just as Melody Pond seems to crave his plays. Maybe there is a way they can both have what they want.

 

John leaps from his chair and rounds his desk, throwing open the door to his study for the first time in days. Morning has come and there is much to be done before he sets out - like washing and dressing. Perhaps breakfast.

 

And then he’ll find her - his little muse.

 

-

 

Clutching at the envelope with his mysterious letter-writer’s address on the front, John stands on the pavement and stares at the decrepit little antiques shop, wondering if he’d somehow managed to get lost. She can’t live in a shop. Can she?

 

He glances down at the address again, squinting.

 

 _49 St. Giles Street_ it reads. But Lux Antiques is not a house or a block of dilapidated flats. With a frown, he stuffs the envelope into his coat pocket with a muttered, “Sod it” and marches for the door. It opens with the merry tinkling of a bell when he pulls and he steps inside, his palms suddenly damp and his throat dry. The shop is a dimly lit, dusty place and as he breathes it in, he realizes it smells just like the letter in his pocket. His little muse had written the letter in this room, perhaps bent over one of the glass countertops. He inhales again and sneezes.

 

A portly, rosy-cheeked man behind the counter glances up with a smile. “Hello, welcome to Lux Antiques. I’m Mr. Lux. Looking for anything in particular today, Sir?”

 

Blinking watering eyes, John waves away the dust floating in front of his face and huffs. “Melody Pond,” he says impatiently, eager to either find his muse or get out of the dust museum. “Does she work here?”

 

“Ah.” Smile and enthusiasm fading somewhat, Mr. Lux sighs. “Indeed she does, Sir. She isn’t due for another fifteen minutes, I’m afraid. And I have no doubt she will be late. She always is. I suspect she does it on purpose. No one can possibly be so late so often without -”

 

“I’ll just wait for her outside,” John interrupts, already making his way to the door again. The dust he might be able to stand for another few minutes but Mr. Lux and his prattle have already begun to set his teeth on edge. He has never been very good at small talk and even less so with people he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like most everyone.

 

“Or you could just go upstairs,” Mr. Lux calls after him.

 

John stops in his tracks, hand already around the doorknob. He glances over his shoulder. “Sorry?”

 

Mr. Lux tsks patiently and John tightens his grip around the doorknob to keep from scowling at him. “She lives above the shop, Sir. Right up those stairs.” He points over his shoulder. “Which is why I find it so baffling than she can never be on time -”

 

“Thanks,” John interrupts again, sweeping through the shop and stirring up more dust with the tail of his coat and his patent leather shoes as he moves rapidly along. He walks around the counter, ignoring Mr. Lux’s protests, and stomps his way up the rickety staircase to the bright blue door at the top.

 

He breathes in, flexing his fingers and curling them into a fist. On the other side of this door is the woman who inspired him to write some of his best work last night. The woman who made suicide seem like sheer idiocy. How could he possibly give up when there are still so many worlds inside him he hasn’t created and shared yet? If nothing else, Melody Pond deserves his thanks. He raps his knuckles against the door and waits.

 

“In a minute! I’m not even late yet!”

 

He stares at the bright blue door and listens to the sound of Melody Pond moving about her flat, raising an eyebrow when he hears her curse under her breath. He knocks again.

 

She growls, stomping toward the door and yanking it open. “Patience is a virtue, Mr. Lux -”

 

He blinks at her.

 

She blinks back at him, lips parting in surprise. “You’re - you’re not Mr. Lux.”

 

“Thank Christ for that,” he mutters, and attempts a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace but he’s too busy staring at her to mind. He isn’t sure what he was expecting from his little muse – an overworked mother, a little old lady, perhaps even a teenage girl with a crush – but nothing had prepared him for the reality. Melody Pond is absolutely stunning. She actually looks like a proper muse – curvaceous and beautiful with golden ringlets. Sharp, glimmering eyes and a clever mouth. Small hands settled on luscious hips. A full bosom spilling over the top of her corset.

 

She isn’t even dressed, he realizes, his mouth going dry. His little muse stands in front of him in a corset and a slip, curls slipping into her eyes and a frown on her lovely face. “What are you doing here, Mr. Smith?”

 

He opens his mouth, still gaping at her, and for the first time in his life words fail him. He tears his gaze away with no small amount of effort and stares at the floor instead, his cheeks positively burning. “Your letter,” he chokes out. “I read your letter.”

 

She doesn’t say anything but when he glances up again in the ensuing silence, Melody Pond is watching him with an appraising eye, her lips curled into an amused smirk. He resists the urge to fidget. He’s a grown man for god’s sake. The surly playwright who makes everyone else flinch away with one biting word. He steels himself and meets her gaze head on. Apparently pleased, Melody asks, “What about my letter?”

 

“It was flowery and ridiculous and overly sentimental rubbish.” He swallows when she only lifts an eyebrow at him, waiting. “I wanted to thank you for it.”

 

With a sigh, Melody drops her hands from her hips and steps aside, opening the door wider. “Come in then.”

 

“Mr. Lux -”

 

She waves him away. “He’ll keep.”

 

Unlike the dusty and dank shop downstairs, Melody Pond’s tiny flat is bright and clean. The windows are open to let in the morning sunlight and a light breeze flutters the curtains and rustles the fabric of a half-finished, elaborate gown draped over a mannequin. It doesn’t smell old and damp in here. It smells like sunlight and citrus and for the first time in days, John feels like he can breathe again.

 

Melody pushes him toward her shabby settee with a flippant hand, bustling into her tiny kitchen to forage for teacups. He watches her for a moment, torn between the urge to forget the whole thing and run away or sit down on her floral printed settee and never leave. “How do you take your tea?”

 

He sits, perching on the edge of a settee cushion. “Six sugars.”

 

“Sorry, was just asking to be polite. I can’t afford sugar any more.” Melody pours them both a cup, glancing over her shoulder at him with a little shrug. “You like biscuits?”

 

He shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

 

“Good. I don’t have those either.” She grins at him, inexplicably proud of her poverty, and John can only stare at her as she approaches balancing two teacups in her hands. He should have brought her something. Giles Street is hardly a wealthy area and he knew that when he came here. He wants to thank her but with what? His gift with words only applies to paper. Out loud, he’s a gruff, inept Scotsman. She probably would have appreciated money. Or food. Feeling like an idiot, he accepts the tea she offers him and settles it on her worn, rickety coffee table with a nod of thanks.

 

She sits next to him, close enough to allow him a brief whiff of her perfume – something dark and spicy, entirely unlike the floral scents always wafting about when Clara bustles around cleaning his home. Melody cradles her cup in her hands and watches him with bright green eyes. He decides very quickly that he doesn’t like her eyes. They see far too much. Her gaze burns into him like she can glimpse the very core of him and he avoids looking directly at her, clearing his throat again. “You live all alone up here?”

 

Melody shakes her head. “Why? Hoping to take advantage of me?”

 

He frowns at her, unruffled.

 

She looks disappointed, glancing down at the steam rising from her tea. “My daughter and her husband live with me. Rory is studying to be a doctor and they can’t afford to live on their own.”

 

“What about your husband?”  He only asks because she has no ring but she has a daughter and curiosity has always gotten the better of him. As he watches her eyes dim, however, he wishes he’d kept his damn mouth shut.

 

Melody bites her lip, glancing down at her bare ring finger. “Dead, I’m afraid. His name was Benjamin.” She smiles, her eyes far away. “He was an idiot.”

 

She says it like a loving pet name and John feels his throat tighten. “I’m sorry.”

 

“So am I.” It’s her turn to avoid his gaze now, like she has revealed far too much of herself and has to make up for it by putting some distance between them. She sips her tea and breathes in the steam rising from her cup, shutting her eyes. “Why are you here? Surely I’m not the first of your fans to write to you.”

 

“No,” he admits, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Just the first to catch my attention.”

 

Startled into looking at him again, Melody smiles, wide and uninhibited, her eyes lighting up. It brightens her whole face, like the sun is shining out of her pores, and it’s only then that John remembers she isn’t quite dressed. She’s lounging on her settee in a corset and a slip next to a complete stranger, sipping her tea like she’s at a bloody social event. “I’m flattered.”

 

Her words draw him from his stupor and caught staring yet again, he looks away with a scowl, flustered. He does not get flustered. Ever. This woman is the most vexing creature he has ever had the good fortune to encounter. His little muse is quite perfect for the job.

 

Remembering the pages in his coat pocket, he shifts in his seat and begins to rummage for them. “I’ve got something for you.”

 

Melody brightens. “A present?”

 

“A new play,” he explains, feeling a smile twitch at his lips at her enthusiasm. He tugs the wrinkles pages from his pocket and presents them to her with a flourish. “I wrote it after I read your letter. Thought you might want to take a look at it.”

 

“Me?” She takes the pages from him with a reverence that makes his chest tighten, looking down at them like one of the antiques in her dusty little shop - like they might crumble if she doesn’t handle them carefully. “Why me? Don’t you have an editor for this sort of thing?”

 

He nods, watching her smooth out the pages over her thighs. “You inspired this one. You get to see it first.”

 

Melody smiles but he can tell she isn’t really listening to him - she’s already reading. He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his short hair. “You don’t have to read it now -”

 

“Shh.” She glances up with a scowl. “Drink your tea, sweetie. I’m busy.”

 

The name rolls off her tongue with such ease he barely blinks at it. He only sighs with just enough force to make her mouth tighten irritably and then he ignores his tea entirely, glancing around her small flat. How is it that someone leading such a dull, insignificant life with no real hope of her own managed to inspire such a magnitude of the emotion in him?

 

Her furniture is shabby and worn, nothing like the plush, expensive furnishings in his townhouse, but everything is well kept and comfortable. On one side of the flat is her small kitchen and on the other side are three doors no doubt leading to the bedrooms and bath. Nestled between it all is her little parlor where he sits now, letting the morning light touch his face while Melody Pond reads the first few pages of his latest endeavor. Every now and then, she either mutters under her breath in disapproval or hums in delighted surprise. She’ll certainly keep his ego in check.

 

“Mum? Have you seen my -” John glances over his shoulder as one of the doors on the other side of the flat opens and a young girl with vibrant ginger hair pokes her head out of one of the bedrooms. She stops mid-sentence, eyeing him with blatant suspicion. “Hello.”

 

He lifts a hand in wary greeting.

 

Melody glances up from her reading with a smile. “Amy, this is John Smith. John, this is my daughter Amy.”

 

“John Smith?” Amy smirks at her mother. “The playwright? The one -”

 

“Whose work I admire?” Melody quirks an eyebrow at her daughter and her glare is menacing. “Yes, the very same.”

 

Amy huffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she turns back to John with a muttered, “Nice to meet you, I suppose.”

 

“Likewise. Probably.”

 

Amy frowns at him.

 

Rolling her eyes, Melody fixes her daughter with a patient smile and asks, “What did you need, dear?”

 

“I can’t find my hair pin. Y’know, the one with the emeralds in it.” She settles her hands on her hips and despite her lean, willowy frame, looks eerily similar to her mother for a moment. “You didn’t take it to the theatre for costumes, did you?”

 

“What if I did? They aren’t real emeralds, you know.”

 

“ _Mum_.”

 

Melody sighs. “Check the bathroom.”

 

Darting from the doorway, Amy opens the bathroom door and pokes her head in, releasing a triumphant noise as she snatches her hairpin from the sink. Tucking it into her hair, she calls out in a booming voice, “ _Rory_! Let’s go!”

 

Melody doesn’t even flinch at the noise, lost in her reading again. Unused to anything but the quiet of his townhouse, John glances back and forth between them, reluctantly fascinated. From the bedroom Amy had just left, a timid young man with an unfortunate nose emerges carrying a heavy satchel over his shoulder. “This flat isn’t that big, you know. I swear I’ll be able to hear you if you speak below a bellow.”

 

Amy smirks, latching onto his hand and tugging him with her.

 

Melody glances up from her pages again, frowning at them as she stands. “You haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

 

“We’ll get something later.” Amy darts in as her mother approaches, pecking her cheek. “I’m sure you two would rather be alone.”

 

Melody glares. “Amelia -”

 

“What?” Amy blinks, eyes wide and innocent but her mouth still smirking. “You’re practically in your knickers in front of him. You could at least wait until Rory and I are out of the house before you try to seduce men.”

 

Rory sighs and stares at his shoes, blushing. “ _Amy_.”

 

Looking faintly embarrassed but mostly murderous, Melody ushers her children toward the door, whacking them over the head with John’s pages until they duck away, slipping out the door and down the stairs. Amy calls back up, “Nice to meet you, John Smith.”

 

Melody slams the door shut behind them and leans her back against it. “Have any children of your own, Mr. Smith?”

 

He shakes his head, still dizzy from the entire encounter.

 

She huffs a curl out of her eyes. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

 

“Noted,” he murmurs, gazing at her as she finishes the last page. “Well? What do you think?”

 

She folds the pages carefully, keeping her head down as she walks toward him, her bare feet a soft whisper against the wooden floorboards. She won’t look at him and he feels his heart sink right down to his stomach and stay there like a heavy stone at the bottom of a pond. He doesn’t know why her opinion is so important. He only just met her. But overnight, before he ever knew her face, Melody has become his guiding light - the foundation on which he rebuilt himself. If even she doesn’t like the play then there really is no hope.

 

She perches on the settee next to him, far too close once more. He breathes in her perfume and tries to unclench his jaw. He flinches when she takes his hand in her own, glancing down warily to watch her press the pages into his palm, closing his fingers around the bundle with her own gentler, calloused ones. He finally risks a glance at her face. She laughs softly, releasing his hand to cup his jaw, rubbing her thumb over his skin until he stops grinding his teeth together. He feels warm all over at her touch, like the sun is shining directly on him.

 

“I think it’s the best thing you’ve written in years,” she says, still grinning. “You’ve found your spark again, sweetie.”

 

John clutches the pages in his hand and stares at her, suddenly more certain than he’s ever been in his life. “Yes,” he manages hoarsely. “I think I have.”


	2. dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is setting when he approaches the antique shop where she lives and he knows most people are probably gathering around their tables for dinner right now but he is not most people. He’s rather hoping Melody Pond is not most people either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the instrumental by Dario Marianelli.

He goes home – back to his empty study and quiet life, only interrupted when Clara comes in to cook and clean for him. He writes in the park, scribbling furiously in a small blue leather-bound book, ignoring any pitying stares from those who recognize him for what he is – another failed playwright. He tries to resume his normal routine but he never stops thinking of Melody Pond and her noisy little flat that smells like citrus. The words run dry in her absence and it isn’t long before he’s staring at a blank page, his quill pen clenched between his teeth.

 

There is no reason to go to her now. He thanked her for the letter. He met his little muse and put a face to her unusual name. To seek her out again would be harassment. She has a life of her own to lead – admittedly a dull one with more work than play, but a life, nonetheless. Surely she hasn’t the time to invite him in for tea and let him bask in the sunlight of her presence again, until the words are brimming over inside him.

 

He taps his pen against the page, staining it with dark blotches of ink, and scowls. He’ll just have to do what he always does when he gets blocked. He’ll go for a walk.

 

The trouble with telling stories for a living is that he has gotten rather good at lying. Even to himself.

 

The sun is setting when he approaches the antique shop where she lives and he knows most people are probably gathering around their tables for dinner right now but he is not most people. He’s rather hoping Melody Pond is not most people either.

 

The shop is dark and he peers through the windows hopefully but there isn’t anyone there - not even nervous Mr. Lux. With a disgruntled mutter, John tries the door but it’s locked. Wonderful. How is he supposed to see his muse when she’s locked away inside like a sodding fairy tale princess in a tower and he’s without a bell to ring?

 

He aims a half-hearted, petulant kick at the door with a booted foot.

 

Shoulders hunched against the rapidly cooling evening air, John turns from the shop and begins to stalk away. It’s likely for the best anyway. She’d probably think he was stalking her if he showed up on her doorstep again. The last thing he needs is an impoverished widow telling the papers that he’s obsessed with her. The night air has done him good anyway. He feels better already and the moment he returns to his study, he’ll try writing again. He hadn’t needed her after all.

 

More lies, of course.

 

He hasn’t a bloody clue what to write next.

 

“Come to buy a vase?”

 

He freezes in the middle of the pavement, glancing warily over his shoulder.

 

Melody Pond stands in the doorway of the antiques shop, hand on her hip and blonde curls in a long braid over her shoulder. She’s dressed today. He eyes her violet gown and doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not. The color is lovely on her but that slip had suited her rather well. She smirks at him, eyes bright under the gas lamps, and he feels his stomach turn over.

 

Christ, he is in over his head.

 

He licks his lips. “Actually, I came to see you.”

 

“Oh?” Melody drops her hand from her hip, wrapping her arm around her waist – a barrier between them. “Why?”

 

The truth doesn’t feel right just yet so John shrugs and doesn’t quite meet her gaze. “I don’t know.”

 

She sighs, the sound a touch disappointed, like she knows he isn’t being honest with her. How could she possibly know such a thing? She doesn’t know him at all. She knows his plays. But he doesn’t know her either and yet here he is, on her doorstep for the second time in as many weeks, certain she has answers he’ll never find on his own. “Are you hungry, John?”

 

He blinks at her, puzzled. What is she asking him for? He has plenty to eat. She’s the poor one.

 

Melody bites her lip against a bout of laughter, her eyes wide and amused. “Has anyone ever told you it’s not polite to say everything you’re thinking out loud?”

 

Realizing he had indeed spoken aloud, John curses under his breath. “Once or twice,” he mutters, then meets her eyes with a grim smile. “I’m not really a polite fellow.”

 

“I’ve noticed.” She’s still smiling and he feels an embarrassing amount of relief knowing she doesn’t seem to mind his biting honesty. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she turned him away now. “I was trying to ask if you’d like to come inside for dinner.”

 

John hesitates, torn between his desperate need to drink in every moment he can with her and his absolute horror at the very idea of sitting down at a table with Melody Pond and her impish daughter. “I’m not really one for families,” he tries. “In fact, I’m a wee bit rubbish at them.”

 

“Well, no one is asking you to join ours, Mr. Smith.” She doesn’t smile but her eyes are sparkling and he has the very distinct feeling she is indeed laughing at him, whether he can hear it or not. “Stop being such a grumpy sod and accept my invitation before I go back inside and lock you out again. Then you’ll never get whatever it is you came here for.”

 

He stares at her, lips parted and chest tight with undeniable affection. He’d been right before. His clever muse is not like most people.

 

Amy and Rory are setting the table when he follows Melody into the little flat. It still smells like citrus but the scent of their dinner – roasted vegetables and a thin soup – has overpowered it for the time being. The table has been lit with candles and Amy is in the middle of wrestling the matches out of Rory’s hand with a muttered complaint about him setting the whole place aflame. Rory offers no reply but a quiet look of indignation and a swift kiss to the tip of her nose. Amy huffs but looks rather pleased.

 

“Set another place,” Melody calls, shutting the door behind him. “We’ve got company.”

 

Amy turns to look and her mouth drops open. Rory takes the opportunity to steal the matches back, slipping them into his pocket. “You.”

 

John raises an eyebrow at her. “Me.” He glances at Melody, who stands beside him with a faint pink flush on her cheeks, glaring at her daughter. “You’re worried about _my_ manners?”

 

“You’re old enough to know better.” She prods him toward the table, turning sharp eyes from her daughter to level them at him instead. “Sit.”

 

Which is exactly how he finds himself wedged between Melody Pond and her equally smug daughter at their very small dinner table, stewing over his vegetables and listening to the Pond family bicker. He tries to take mental notes of everything since scribbling at the table is likely frowned upon but it’s impossible not to be distracted with Melody’s arm brushing his every time she reaches for her drink and her low laughter right in his ear.

 

John isn’t an emotive sort of fellow. He plays things close to the vest, especially his feelings. He never bestows an accidental smile, never laughs when he doesn’t mean to, never even lets his eyes soften with feeling without express permission from the rest of him. Melody Pond, unfortunately, is quite determined to destroy the wall John has carefully erected between himself and the rest of the world. He very nearly shudders every time she touches him, his lips curve into a corresponding smile every time she laughs. Each shake of her head sends a whiff of her perfume his way and he inhales without a moment’s hesitation, glancing at her with bright, soft eyes. It isn’t his fault. Whoever could resist a muse so vibrant?

 

Thankfully Melody doesn’t seem to notice any of it but Amy, with her sharp eyes constantly assessing him - her mother’s eyes, he’s certain - sees absolutely everything. And she isn’t afraid to let him know it.

 

Melody passes him the plate of bread and when their fingers brush, he very nearly recoils, setting the plate down on the table with unnecessary force. Eyeing him, Amy puts down her fork and folds her hands in her lap, meeting his gaze dead on. “So John – I can call you John, can’t I?” She nods despite his frown, forging ahead. “Quite the coincidence seeing you again.”

 

He stares at her. “Pardon?”

 

“Isn’t it a coincidence?” She lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t mean to find yourself here for dinner, did you? Unless my mother invited you.”

 

Melody dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and watches her daughter with an unruffled smirk. “I did no such thing.”

 

John glares at her.

 

Her smirk deepens. “You were just passing by, weren’t you, sweetie?”

 

Amy snorts indelicately, ignoring Rory’s gentle elbow in her side. “Sweetie, is it? How cozy.”

 

“Amy,” Rory whines, staring into his soup. “Don’t.”

 

“What? I’m just curious.” She shrugs, her mischievous eyes landing on John once more. “Can’t a girl get to know her new father?”

 

John inhales sharply, eyes widening, and with a little restraint, barely manages to keep himself from wheezing. He coughs harshly, flinching when Melody pats his back. She barely looks at him, her eyes hard and focused on her daughter, her mouth a thin line. “Enough, Amy.”

 

Chastened, Amy goes back to her dinner with a sigh.

 

They finish their soup in silence, Rory keeping his eyes fastened on his food, Amy and Melody engaging in some sort of silence argument across their plates, and John struggling to ignore the warmth of Melody’s small palm still pressed against his back.

 

Rory is the one to finally speak again, setting aside his soupspoon and clearing his throat as Melody rises to fetch the tea. “So, Mr. Smith -”

 

“John.”

 

Amy looks smug. “See? He doesn’t mind -”

 

“ _You_ can call me John,” he grumbles, glancing at Rory. He narrows his eyes at the redheaded fiend beside him. “The lass, however, may call me Papa.”

 

Rory and Melody snort simultaneously, hiding their grins in the palms of their hands, and he feels inordinately pleased with himself. He watches Amy with gleaming eyes, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. She glares, tossing her hair just to smack him in the cheek with it.

 

“John,” Rory tries again, still smiling. “Melody told us you’re working on a new play.”

 

“Better than the last one, I hope,” Amy mumbles, wincing when Melody walks up behind her and pinches her. “Oi!” Melody pushes a teacup into her hands with a look of disapproval. Deflating, Amy glances at him with a muttered, “Sorry.”

 

“No need,” he says, accepting his tea from Melody with a curt nod. “It was shite.”

 

Amy glances up in surprise, her lips curling into a faint smile. “It really was.”

 

Settling beside him once more, Melody curls her hands around her teacup. The steam from her tea rises to brush against her cheeks, flushing them a light shade of pink. John stares at her, his grip on his own cup suddenly lax. “I didn’t think so.”

 

Scoffing, Amy says, “You think everything he writes is brilliant. I’m just glad he’s finally shown his face round here again. If I had to hear one more _oh Amelia listen to this sentence I feel simply faint with_ -”

 

Melody flushes, glaring at her and refusing to meet John’s wickedly amused gaze. “Well it’s certainly better than I could do.”

 

“Faint, hmm?” He asks, raising his brows at her.

 

Melody nudges him with an elbow. “She’s exaggerating. Enormously.”

 

He sips his tea and eyes her over the rim of the chipped cup.

 

“So what’s the new play about?” Rory asks, attempting to get them all back on track and away from teasing Melody. “Or are you the sort that doesn’t like to discuss what you’re working on?”

 

John pauses, hesitating as he glances down into his teacup. He’s never really had anyone to discuss his work with before, besides his impresario. He hardly thinks Mr. Lethbridge counts, not when he’s just concerned with how many tickets he’ll have to sell to make a profit. Clara has never concerned herself with his work either. She flits about making sure he eats and that he won’t expire from dust asphyxiation but when it comes to his plays, she isn’t much help.

 

He glances between Amy and Rory’s inquiring faces, however, and finds that he doesn’t really want to share. The act of writing is an intimate thing to him and certainly not something to be shared with just anyone. He shared with Melody but… he shared with Melody. She knows exactly what his latest endeavor is about and she clearly hadn’t breathed a word to either of her children.

 

He lets his gaze drift to her and finds her watching him calmly, her hands folded around her teacup and her eyes soft and encouraging. He swallows. “I’m not sure yet,” he finally answers gruffly. “It’s too early to say.”

 

“Fair enough.” Rory shrugs, casting Amy a sly glance. “But you can tell us if it’s about a great ginger sea monster. She won’t be offended, I swear.”

 

Amy gasps, whacking him hard on the arm. “Wanker,” she mutters. “I’d be a beautiful mermaid princess and you would be my lowly footman.”

 

“So just like now except you’d get a tiara and fins?” Rory quirks an eyebrow, flinching when she whacks him again.

 

Watching them both with fondness, Melody glances once at John and slides a fingertip around the rim of her teacup. “I don’t know. I’m rather partial to the ginger sea monster. Perhaps she could eat the grumpy Scottish magician.”

 

Amy applauds the idea, Rory casts him an apologetic glance, and Melody takes one look at his scowling face before tipping her head back in musical laughter. It melts the sour look away from his face rather promptly and John struggles to keep up the facade, growling out, “Perhaps she’ll live happily ever after with her mother the sea witch.”

 

This only seems to delight her further and what ensues is a competition between the two of them to see who can be made into the wickedest, most vile and revolting villain. Melody almost always wins.

 

By the time Amy and Rory excuse themselves and disappear into their bedroom for the night, John feels renewed. His enthusiasm and vigor regained from a lively if somewhat odd dinner and bickering with Melody Pond, he feels ready to tackle the blank page awaiting him in his study. He’s eager to head back and begin writing but still, he hesitates, watching Melody put away dishes and re-pin her hair, preparing to head out to the theatre to sew costumes until the wee hours of the morning. He wonders how often she sleeps. It seems she’s always headed somewhere, always doing something to earn another measly pound. Does the woman ever sit down?

 

She doesn’t say much as she moves about, letting him hover. He likes that about Melody. She doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with inane chatter like everyone else. She lets the quiet moments breathe instead. It’s an excellent quality to have in a muse, he supposes. John clears his throat, tapping his fingers against the back of a tatty armchair while Melody sweeps about the room picking up stray articles of clothing or one of Rory’s medical books.

 

She glances up, a wayward curl falling into her eyes that she huffs away automatically. “Out with it, then.”

 

“What?”

 

“You clearly have something you wish to say.” She plants a hand on her cocked hip and he clamps his mouth shut, wondering with annoyance how such an impoverished creature manages to have quite so many curves and how a woman he finds so vastly infuriating still manages to make his heart stutter for all the right reasons just by looking at him. “Go on and say it.”

 

He doesn’t, just to be vexing. “Thank you for dinner.”

 

Melody huffs and rolls her eyes as she turns back to the matter of fluffing the settee cushions. “You mean you actually liked it?”

 

“The vegetables were… fine.”

 

“And the soup?”

 

“Too salty.”

 

She snorts, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Of course it was. Perhaps you’d like to make dinner next time?”

 

Ignoring the way his heart leaps at the words _next time_ , he only sniffs. “I don’t cook.”

 

“Then perhaps you should shut it instead of criticizing someone else’s.” Giving the cushions one last pat, Melody straightens and turns to face him, smoothing a hand over the bodice of her dress. If she notices his gaze following the movement, she doesn’t mention it. “Now was that all?”

 

He frowns, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “No need to be cross. Just a bit of constructive criticism.”

 

“Is it still considered constructive if I didn’t ask for it?” She tilts her head, eyes bright, like she’s gearing up for another argument with him. The knowledge that she relishes their little spats as much he does makes it a lot easier to blurt out what he says next.

 

“I want to come back.”

 

Melody blinks at him. “I’m sorry?”

 

“Here.” He holds her gaze for a long moment before he glances away, fixing the aged wooden floorboards beneath his feet with a heavy stare. “I want to come back here.”

 

“What for?”

 

John scuffs his boot against the floor and frowns deeply, his brow furrowing. With the air of a sullen, reluctant child, he admits, “You’ve become an… integral part of my writing process.”

 

“Integral part of your…” Melody trails off and when he risks a peek at her, he knows she’s caught on to what he’s trying desperately not to reveal. He can tell because his wicked source of inspiration is looking at him with a delighted grin on her damnably lovely face. “You mean I’m your muse?” His frown deepens and he opens his mouth to protest the whole thing but he hesitates and Melody latches onto his ill-timed pause with glee. She throws her head back and laughs. “I am! Oh, how delicious.”

 

“Melody -”

 

“Aren’t muses supposed to be young?” She toys with a curl, wrapping it around her finger and attempting a coquettish look that manages to suit her rather well. Of course.

 

He scowls. “How should I know? I’ve never had one before.” Her eyes light up at _before_ like he has confirmed her suspicions and he hurries to speak over her little noise of gratification. “Anyway, you’re hardly old.”

 

“Hardly a spring chicken, either.” She lets go of her curl and he watches it spring back into place in quiet fascination, entirely missing her smirk until she says, “Fancy me, do you?”

 

He struggles against his traitorous body’s overwhelming urge to blush, snapping at her. “You inspire my writing. Nothing more.”

 

“You _really_ fancy me.”

 

John grits his teeth, hands curls into fists at his side. “As you said,” he sneers. “You’re hardly a spring chicken.”

 

“Oh sod off.”

 

Her words are biting but she’s still smiling at him and John cannot quite repress the urge to smile back, pleased with himself even as he asks with an impatient grumble, “Can I come back again or not?”

 

Melody purses her lips, considering him for a long moment. “I get to read your writing first?”

 

He nods.

 

She lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Alright then.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Just like that, sweetie.” She winks.


	3. always summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He walks the familiar path to the park slowly, his hands in his pockets. There was a time when the park was the place where he got all his best writing done but more and more often these days, that place seems to be wherever Melody happens to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the instrumental by Adrian Johnston.

He finds himself ensconced in Melody’s tiny, sun-drenched flat whenever he isn’t writing. It becomes his home away from home. Rather, it becomes more of a home to him than his empty townhouse ever was. He goes there to change and to wash and to pay Clara for cleaning a house he’s never in.

 

When he isn’t writing, he spends his time shadowing Melody as she goes about her daily routine. He scribbles in his notebook in a corner of the antique shop while she tries to sell boring old vases and broken pocket watches, Mr. Lux trailing behind her with disapproving tuts. Melody spends a lot of time accidentally stepping on the man’s toes. He has dinner with her family, growing fonder of Rory’s quiet nature and Amy’s ability to stomp all over his very last nerve. And then he follows her to the theatre and reads his writings for the day aloud, listening to Melody curse every time she pricks herself with a needle.

 

She always invites him back to her flat for tea on those nights and he always ends up drifting off to sleep on her worn settee, waking up in the morning with his leather notebook still clutched in his hand and an old quilt that smells like Melody and dust draped over him. It’s far from the quiet life he used to lead before her letter arrived but John finds that he doesn’t mind the change. In fact, he prefers it.

 

Waking up one morning with a stiff neck from sleeping on Melody’s settee again, he opens his eyes and stares blearily at the sunlight peaking through the curtains, certain something must have woken him. It takes only another moment of groggy listening before he confirms it, hearing Rory and Melody’s low voices in the kitchen.

 

“I’m just saying,” Rory says softly, and John lifts the arm slung over his face just enough to see the younger man lay a tentative hand on Melody’s shoulder. “Maybe you should be more careful.”

 

Careful? John peers at Melody, watching her gently shrug Rory away. Careful of what?

 

“I appreciate you trying to look after me, Rory. It’s very sweet.” She offers him a soft smile and pats his cheek. “But since when have I ever cared what people think?”

 

Looking resigned, Rory sighs and holds up his hands. “I just wanted you to hear me out. Which you did. So, y’know, thanks.”

 

Melody takes his head in her hands with a smile, pressing a smacking kiss to his forehead. “You’re a good son-in-law.”

 

Flushing, Rory ducks his head to hide a grin. “Yeah?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

John closes his eyes again, tugging the quilt up to his chin and burying his face in it. Whatever it is Rory is so concerned about, he isn’t surprised in the least that Melody doesn’t care. She doesn’t concern herself much with other people, his muse. He feels a smile tugging at his lips and yawns widely to stifle it.

 

Melody is everything he imagined she would be when he first read her letter and yet not at all. She is a walking contradiction, full of riddles and curves and teasing remarks. She makes the words inside him spill onto the page like water from a fountain. Just the sight of her hair is enough to inspire him - she carries the sun in that hair.

 

Relying on someone else should terrify him. Sometimes it does. But whenever the fear wells up and threatens to ruin the peace of this new coexistence he has found, Melody is always there to calm him, just as she is now, standing over him and waving a steaming cup of tea under his nose. “Good morning, sunshine.”

 

He takes the cup from her with a sleepy grumble, brushing the quilt away from his face to sit up and drink. Melody gives him a slow smile, no doubt silently laughing at his rumpled hair and what she has fondly dubbed his _it’s morning so don’t even breathe on me_ expression. “What?”

 

“Nothing.” She blinks, turning away and walking swiftly back into the kitchen. “I’ve got to open up the shop. Feel free to come down whenever you’re ready to join the world of the living.”

 

He grumbles under his breath and sips his tea.

 

Melody pauses by the door, peering into a mirror to inspect her hair. “Hungry?”

 

Breathing in the steam from his tea and wishing just once he could catch her with her hair down instead of up all the sodding time, John nods. “I could eat.”

 

“Then I suggest you get up and make yourself something, sweetie.”

 

She offers him a cheeky wave and slips out of the flat, shutting the door behind her. Huffing to himself, John listens to her light footsteps on the stairs before he disentangles himself from his makeshift bed and stumbles to the kitchen in search of breakfast. It’s times like these he really misses Clara.

 

-

 

Out of sheer stubbornness, he attempts to write in the quiet of Melody’s flat after breakfast. With Amy and Rory out for the day and Melody downstairs minding the shop, he has the peace and quiet to scribble out a few pages. He sits at the kitchen table and ends up staring into space, tapping his pen against the blank page of his notebook. He tries the settee but it’s too comfortable and he almost drops off to sleep again. He tries the chair by the window but it’s far too distracting – people always coming and going, the untold stories of their lives plaguing him.

 

John stares out the window, pen in hand, and watches a man in an expensive coat and top hat cross the street and head into the shop. Even a floor up, he can hear the little bell jingle as he opens the door. Resigning himself to never getting a bit of work done unless he drags himself downstairs and surrounds himself with noise - namely Melody haggling with customers over the price of an antique vase - John snatches up his notebook and stomps toward the stairs.

 

Leaning over the glass countertop with a coy smile directed at her newest costumer, Melody only lets her gaze flicker briefly in his direction and he rolls his eyes at the sight of her flirting her way into another big sale. Honestly, the woman is shameless.

 

Her customer – the man John had watched come into the shop only moments ago – returns her grin and tips his hat at her. “You like them, do you?”

 

She nods, reaching out a hand to briefly touch the brim of his hat. “Oh yes. My late husband was very fond of them. I think they’re quite dashing.”

 

John bristles, stalking to his usual corner behind the counter but out of sight. He bumps into Melody as he goes and doesn’t bother apologizing, ignoring her pointed glare. “Oops.”

 

“Well,” the man says, adjusting his hat again with a grin and capturing Melody’s attention once more. “I suppose I’ll commit to that watch, Ms. Pond.”

 

“Are you certain?” Melody takes the rusty old ticker out of the case and displays it to him with a smirk. “You’ve only been coming here every day this week to fawn over it and then change your mind.”

 

Every day? Bloody hell, John had to look up from his notebook more often. 

 

The man preens. “With all due respect, Ms. Pond, that had little to do with the watch and most everything to do with who was selling it.”

 

Feeling his lip curl in disgust, John scoffs under his breath. _What a tosspot_.

 

Melody stiffens, turning to glare at him over her shoulder. Her customer blinks at him in surprise. Even Mr. Lux, busy counting his money across the room, looks up to gape at him. Brow pinched, John stares at them, realizes his cursed penchant for speaking aloud has gotten him into trouble again, and scowls at them all in an effort to look as though he’d done it on purpose.

 

“John, that was rude,” Melody says, and he watches her clench her teeth in an effort not to snarl at him. It wouldn’t do to scare her poor customer away. “Apologize to Mr. Alistair.”

 

Offering her a hard stare, John returns his attention back to his notebook, rifling through the pages. Stopping when he finds the last page he had written on, he mutters, “I’m sorry you’re a tosspot, Mr. Alistair.”

 

Across the room, Mr. Lux makes a soft noise of distress and John vaguely hears him stammering out apologies but he’s far too lost in the notes he’d made yesterday to pay his surroundings any mind until he hears the shop bell jingle and the door slam shut. He glances up curiously to find Mr. Alistair gone and Melody staring at him like she’s going to slap him, nostrils flaring and her hand curled into a fist.

 

“What?”

 

“ _What_?” Her chest heaves – he pointedly does not look though he knows it’s likely doing remarkable things to her bosom – and he can practically hear her teeth grinding together as she takes a menacing step toward him. “You’ve just lost us a customer and a sale, you disagreeable Scottish pillock and you have the nerve to ask me _what_?”

 

He blinks at her. “How did I lose your sale? If he didn’t want to buy your rusty pocket watch then that’s because of your shoddy salesmanship. It has nothing to do with me.”

 

“You insulted him!”

 

“ _I_ insulted him so he punished _you_?” He huffs out a smug, triumphant laugh, going back to his notebook. “See? Tosspot.”

 

Melody takes another step toward him, eyes blazing bright with her fury, and he feels an inexplicable tug low in his stomach, something warm and vicious and overwhelming. “I’m going to slap you so hard you’ll be too dizzy to write another word for the rest of your miserable life -”

 

“Enough!” Mr. Lux scrambles in between them, red-faced and puffing as he holds out his hands. “This is a place of business, Ms. Pond. Your ill-mannered friends are not welcome to sit about and cause trouble with paying customers! One more display like that and I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go.” He turns to look at John, not quite so confident under his steely-eyed gaze. He wilts a little but squares his shoulders, determined. “And I’m going to have to ask you to leave right away, Mr. Smith.”

 

John stares at him, gripping his quill pen in one white-knuckled fist. “I can’t leave. I’m writing.”

 

“Well…” Mr. Lux flounders, puzzled. “Write somewhere else.”

 

“No, I need -” John sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration before gesturing helplessly to Melody, who still stands behind Mr. Lux, fuming. “I need her.”

 

Mr. Lux blinks at him, brow furrowing, but John barely pays him any mind because over his shoulder, he can see Melody’s eyes soften. She still looks like she wants to slap him but she shakes her head at him and sighs, lips curling into an exasperated smile, and he knows if she did hit him, it wouldn’t sting quite as much as she’d intended. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but we can’t have people lurking about in the shop without buying anything. It sets a precedent and -”

 

“Here.” John reaches into his trouser pocket with a sigh and digs out a few bills, stuffing them into Mr. Lux’s hand. “That should cover the watch. Now will you kindly sod off?”

 

Staring at the bills in his hand, Mr. Lux swallows and looks like he might faint. “Mr. Smith, this is far too generous. The watch was only -”

 

“Nothing is too generous if it makes you go away,” John grumbles, eyeing him.

 

“Right.” Mr. Lux snaps his mouth shut, grasps the bills tightly in a greedy fist, and says, “Let me know if you need anything, Sir.”

 

As he turns on his heel and scurries away, John breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to his notes, hunched over them and trying to decipher his own handwriting. The relative peace of the shop is broken moments later by Melody slamming drawers and stomping about, and when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, he sees her boxing up the watch for him. He bites his tongue and tries to concentrate, leaving her be.

 

When she slams the box down on the counter and earns a look of blatant disapproval from Mr. Lux, he finally looks up with a sigh. “What now?”

 

“Nothing.” She turns from the counter, leaning her back against it as she crosses her arms over her chest and frowns at him. “I can only imagine what it must be like to throw away a small fortune on a trinket you neither need nor want just so you can sit here and write.”

 

John meets her gaze in silence for a long moment, trying to determine what exactly she wants from him and what will get her to stop being so stroppy and let him get back to work. Mr. Lux wanted him to leave. He didn’t want to leave. So he bought something. And now Melody is… what? Pouting because she doesn’t have any money?

 

“Are you…” He ventures, squinting at her. “Jealous because I didn’t pay you instead?”

 

With a growl of disbelief, Melody throws his watch box at him. He ducks and it crashes into the wall just over his shoulder. “Work on your aim,” he says, and goes back to writing.

 

-

 

By the time the shop closes for the day, Melody has mostly forgotten for their little spat. A couple came in looking for an engagement ring after teatime and she’d sold them the most expensive one the little shop possessed. She locks up after Mr. Lux leaves and turns to him with a sigh, watching him close his notebook and stand, stretching. “Well soldier, how goes the day?”

 

“Not bad.” He tucks his pen into his coat pocket and strides toward her, wondering why the sight of her, the knowledge that she was in a backroom somewhere, or even just a glimpse of her hair had been enough to keep him writing all day without stopping once – except when she’d forced him to have tea. “I think I might skip dinner and finish this scene in the park.”

 

Melody reaches out her hands, straightening his coat lapels and cravat. “Are you sure? It’s Amy’s turn to cook tonight.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Exactly.”

 

“You’re horrible.”

 

He brushes her hands away, clenching his jaw when his fingertips brush her knuckles. “I’ll be back in time to accompany you to the theatre.”

 

“You don’t have to -”

 

“I never do anything because I have to,” he huffs. “I do them because I… want to.”

 

Melody looks pleased, a faint smile twisting her lips. “Well,” she says, and gives his cravat one last pat. “In that case, I’ll see you in a bit.”

 

He waits until she disappears upstairs before he lets himself out of the shop, locking the door behind him with the key Mr. Lux doesn’t know he has. He walks the familiar path to the park slowly, his hands in his pockets. There was a time when the park was the place where he got all his best writing done but more and more often these days, that place seems to be wherever Melody happens to be.

 

Pushing away the unease he feels about his new dependency on the eccentric shopkeeper and seamstress, John finds his favorite bench beneath a towering oak and settles in to pen the last scene he wants to write for the day. The play itself has taken an unexpected turn. He’d been so certain it would be a tragedy when he began it – the story of a suicidal young lady taken in by a single father and his unruly orphan children – but it has slowly turned into a love story before his very eyes and quite without his permission. There isn’t much to be done about it now. He considers himself more of a recorder, in any case. He follows the story wherever it leads. This time it has just led him down a path he never foresaw.

 

He finishes the scene just in time to meet Melody outside the shop and walk with her to the theatre, her arm tucked into his. She spends a few hours slaving over costumes for a new production and he sits on the floor beside her, back pressed against a wall as he faces her and reads aloud what he has written for the day.

 

“Hang on,” she interrupts suddenly, raising her head from sewing patches onto a hobo jacket to frown at him. “Read that last bit again.”

 

He does, raising an eyebrow when she shakes her head. “What?”

 

“It’s not right. She wouldn’t let him -” She purses her lips, sewing needle still poised between her fingers. “What if, when he discovers the truth, she leaves?”

 

He lifts his chin, tapping his pen idly against his notebook. “She’d never.”

 

“She might,” Melody says, going back to her sewing. “One day.”

 

He bristles. “You’re suddenly a writer?”

 

She tucks a loose ringlet behind her ear and doesn’t look up from her work, kicking at him with a silk slippered foot. “I can’t just blindly adore everything you write any more – not when you’re relying on my opinion. I have to be objective, sweetie.”

 

“I don’t like it,” he grumbles. “You’re supposed to be my biggest fan.”

 

Melody snorts.

 

He scowls at her, prodding at her slipper with his boot until she lifts her green-eyed gaze from her sewing to fix him with an annoyed glare. “You know, you were much more of an agreeable lass when you were _just_ a fan.”

 

She sniffs at him, stomping on his toes. He flinches, drawing his foot back. “And you were much more agreeable when you were just a stranger who wrote plays I enjoyed instead of the grumpy man who sleeps on my settee.”

 

Still scowling, he makes a note in the margins with Melody’s suggestion and ignores her smug, knowing smile. When her sewing is finished for the night, they leave the theatre behind in sleepy, companionable silence, content with their busy day of bickering together. Melody keeps her arm tucked in his as they make their way back home and leans her head on his shoulder, struggling to stay alert. John cups his hand around her fingers on his arm and guides her through the lamp-lit streets, too relaxed to tease her.

 

Amy and Rory are already asleep when they arrive and the flat is mostly dark. Melody moves about silently, preparing his tea while he tugs off his boots and puts away his notebook. It isn’t until she presses it into his hand and kisses his cheek goodnight – her lips warm and soft enough make him lean into her, just a bit – before padding off to her own room that John realizes something is amiss.

 

He doesn’t understand what it is until after he has finished his tea and pulled the quilt over himself on the settee, settling in for the night. Lying awake in the dark, he realizes that somewhere along the way, he started thinking of the little flat that smells like citrus as _home_.


	4. the secret life of daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slap comes as a surprise but it probably shouldn’t have. Grimacing, John flexes his jaw and groans, bringing a hand up to his stinging cheek. “Damn it, Melody. I said pretend!”
> 
> She drops her hand back to lap with a little shrug, smirking. “Oops, just caught up in the moment. Sorry sweetie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the instrumental by Dario Marianelli.

“You claim to love me and yet you speak as if I am little more than a servant to do your will.”

 

“Love?” He scoffs. “I love none but my children – your charges. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re a servant in this house. You have been since I took pity on you -”

 

“How dare you.”

 

The slap comes as a surprise but it probably shouldn’t have. Grimacing, John flexes his jaw and groans, bringing a hand up to his stinging cheek. “Damn it, Melody. I said pretend!”

 

She drops her hand back to lap with a little shrug, smirking. “Oops, just caught up in the moment. Sorry sweetie.”

 

He glares at her, unconvinced, but when she only blinks innocently in return and fans herself with her pages, he can do nothing but drop the matter. He returns his attention to the dialogue in front of him, marking a few passages for revision later. When Melody gets a free afternoon, he likes to steal as much time with her as he can – for the sake of his work, of course. While he plays the part of the widowed father, she reads the lines of the young governess, sometimes affecting a coquettish voice that makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but stifling his own amusement.

 

Melody sets aside her pages and flops onto her back, smiling up at the canopy of leaves overhead from her spot on their picnic blanket. “It’s getting quite good.”

 

“Quite good?” He lifts his gaze from the page in front of him to raise an eyebrow at her, insulted. “Just quite good?”

 

“I don’t want to inflate your head any more than it is already,” she says, grinning at him. Even John is incapable of maintaining his scowl when she smiles like that. He makes a show of grumbling to himself and drops his eyes back to his notes. “Are they ever going to stop dancing around each other like hopelessly unruly children?”

 

“Spoilers,” he says, jotting down another note for himself.

 

“That’s completely unfair, you pillock.” Melody lifts her head to glare at him. “I’m your muse!”

 

“You’re a pain in my side,” he mutters, but his lips twitch and he turns his attention from his notebook just long enough to meet her eyes with his own soft gaze. “Now be a good girl and read your lines, dear.”

 

Dear? When had Melody become dear?

 

Her eyes narrow and her mouth tightens into a thin line as she watches him. He’s fairly sure he’s about to be slapped again but the boisterous voice of Amy Pond becomes his saving grace. “I told you they’d be here!” She marches across the park and right toward them, towing Rory along by the hand. “They’re boring and set in their ways, like an old married couple.”

 

Melody flushes, sitting up on the blanket to make room for her daughter and son-in-law. She thrusts the pages back at John and refuses to look directly at him, tucking wayward curls behind her ears. “What are you two doing here?”

 

Amy drops onto the blanket next to her mother with a grin. “Well since you’re so busy being _inspiring_ , we thought you might be hungry. Rory?”

 

On cue, her husband produces a hamper from behind his back, undoubtedly filled with food. John eyes it suspiciously, leaning in. “Did you make any of it?”

 

Amy punches him in the arm. He flinches away from her with a glare, wishing Melody would teach her daughter how to act like a respectable bloody lady. He supposes Melody would have to learn how first. Amy sniffs at him. “Rory made it. It’s perfectly edible.”

 

“That’s terribly sweet, darling,” Melody says, leaning in to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to enjoy it without me. I’ve got to get back to the shop before Mr. Lux has a fit. I’ve already been gone longer than I should have.”

 

Melody and Amy both shoot him accusatory looks and John huffs at them. “I’m hardly chaining you to the tree, Melody.”

 

“No,” she murmurs, looking positively wicked. “But that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Wench,” he grouses, refusing to blush even when Amy snorts.

 

Melody rises gracefully to her feet and smirks down at him but when he starts to gather his things to follow, she shakes her head. “Stay here today, sweetie. Mr. Lux hates it when you lurk about and he’ll be in enough of a foul temper without you making it worse.”

 

He frowns up at her, seeing Amy and Rory unpack their picnic hamper out of the corner of his eye. “What am I supposed to do then?”

 

“Stay here. Have a picnic.” Melody reaches out a hand and pats him on the head, her amusement only growing when he swats her away. “Try not to scare away small children.”

 

“I’m brilliant with small children,” he snaps.

 

“Yeah,” Amy mumbles, popping a grape into her mouth. “Brilliant at terrifying them.”

 

John looks to Rory for support, but the younger man shrugs and says, “You _are_ kind of Scottish.”

 

Amy beams, triumphant, and Melody laughs at them, offering the top of John's head one last fond pat before she leaves. John watches her retreat, still scowling, though his hair tingles all the way down to the roots. It isn’t until she disappears that Rory offers him a sandwich and Amy nudges him. “So, how goes the play?”

 

John inspects his sandwich suspiciously, realizes Rory actually knows what he likes, and bites into it. “Fine.”

 

“Almost finished then?”

 

Pausing mid-chew, John eyes her. “Why?”

 

Amy sighs, exchanging a quick but inscrutable glance with Rory. “We were just wondering when you might be going, that’s all.”

 

Though his food is only half-chewed, John swallows anyway but it doesn’t quite rid him of the sudden lump in his throat. He tries to clear it, taking the drink Rory hands him, and wonders why he suddenly feels so warm and unsettled. “Hoping to reclaim your settee soon?”

 

“Something like that,” Amy says, exchanging another glance with Rory, who shrugs. “But you will be leaving, won’t you? Once you’ve finished the play?”

 

John shrugs, shifting uncomfortably. He puts down his sandwich on his napkin, unable to stomach the idea of taking another bite. Christ, he thought Rory was at least capable of putting together a sandwich. Not even Amy’s cooking has ever made him feel this ill.

 

“I mean there’s no reason for you to stick around after, is there?” Amy prods, still watching him closely. “You could probably just go now, since you’re about finished. Don’t really need my mum for the last few scenes, right?”

 

“I suppose not,” John mumbles, still lost in thought. When her words register, he snaps his head up to stare at her. “What? No, I’m not leaving until the play is finished. I need your mother -”

 

“You need her settee and her opinion and her inspiring face,” Amy finally snaps. “You need her to brew your tea and tell you when you’re being an arse. Well what about when you don’t need her anymore, John? What happens to her then?”

 

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” He tosses his half-eaten sandwich back into the picnic basket just to avoid the ire in her gaze, ignoring Rory’s sigh of disapproval. “She’ll be fine. She’s practically as eager to get rid of me as you are.”

 

His stomach lurches again. Remind him never to eat another of Rory’s sandwiches.

 

“You’re an idiot,” Amy seethes, and when he finally lifts his eyes to glare at her, she’s already staring him down. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to her reputation by staying at our flat, you oblivious sod?”

 

He blinks at her. What?

 

“Do you even care?”

 

“Of course I -”

 

“She lets you stay because she thinks you need her. Because she’s completely -”

 

“Amy,” Rory interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. “Stop.”

 

She breathes in deeply, shaking her head as she collects herself. Whatever she’d been about to say, she doesn’t finish. Instead, she looks into John’s eyes with a fierce sort of protectiveness he never thought he would see in Melody’s free-spirited daughter, and says, “If all you can offer my mother is a bit of your time while you’re writing your bloody play, then hurry up and finish the damn thing. And leave her be.”

 

“I’ll leave when I’m sodding well good and ready,” John snaps, already climbing to his feet, his notebook clenched in one white-knuckled fist. “If Melody wanted me to leave, she’d say so. Your mother is a grown woman perfectly capable of looking after herself. She certainly doesn’t need her horrible daughter doing it for her.” He turns to stalk away but after a few steps, he changes his mind and turns back, calling out to them, “And those sandwiches were shite!”

 

He stalks through the park with a vengeful scowl, unsettled and shaky without the slightest clue why. It isn’t the first time he’s fought with Amy. They’re at each others throats near constantly when they’re together, though their rows have softened somewhat over time into something almost fond. But this is the first time anyone has brought up the subject of him leaving. It isn’t like he doesn’t know he can’t stay with Melody and her children forever. He’s perfectly aware of that whatever Amy might say to the contrary. Subconsciously, he’d always known it wasn’t permanent. Consciously, however, he’s been doing his best not to think about it.

 

He doesn’t want to think about it now either.

 

It’s far too early to go back to the shop. Melody will surely notice his mood is even more foul than usual and he doesn’t feel like answering her questions. He turns in the direction of his townhouse instead, knowing it’s the last place most anyone would think to look for him these days. He lets himself in with his key and tosses his notebook onto the table in the foyer, sighing loudly and hearing it echo back to him in the vast, empty space.

 

This house is too big. Too quiet. Too… much.

 

Perhaps when he finishes the play he’ll move – somewhere smaller and louder and with that citrusy scent that permeates every part of Melody’s little flat. He’ll have to ask her before he goes exactly what it is she does to make the place so fragrant. Perhaps it’ll make his own home feel a little more like hers. It’ll make it a little easier to imagine she’s there, somewhere in the next room.

 

John scrubs a tired hand over his face and shakes the thought away, squaring his shoulders as he stomps up the stairs and makes his way toward his chambers. He’ll fetch another change of clothes and stop by his study to grab another pen. By the time he makes it back to the shop, Mr. Lux should be through with his little tantrum over Melody’s tardiness and allow him to stay. And if not, he can always buy a vase or a dusty painting to get back into his good graces.

 

“Well, look who finally decided to grace the lowly help with his presence.”

 

He stops in the middle of the corridor, groaning inwardly, and turns around to walk into the room he just passed – one of the guest rooms no one ever uses. Why does he have all these bloody _rooms_? “Clara,” he greets her grudgingly. “Is it time to pay you again?”

 

She rolls her eyes, tucking her duster into a pocket of her apron. “You can’t even remember? Blimey, if I were more ambitious I could rob you blind.”

 

“Is that a no?” He asks, already inching out of the room again.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” She asks, marching right after him.

 

“Need clothes.” He navigates the corridors with Clara at his heels, chattering away despite his best attempts to ignore her. He’s in no mood for light-hearted small talk at the moment. “Go clean something.”

 

She huffs. “I don’t even know if there’s anything left in that wardrobe of yours. The only time you’re ever here it to take something out of it. I can barely recall what your face looks like.”

 

She starts in surprise when he abruptly turns around and stares down at her, giving her a clear view of him. “Satisfied?”

 

“You’re older than I remember.” She squints up at him, smirking. “Is that a new wrinkle?”

 

John swats her away when she tries to poke at his eye, scowling. “Is that all?”

 

Her grin lessens at that, fading at the edges. “In a hurry to see your muse?”

 

“Why?” He stares at her, feeling his stomach tighten with dread. “Jealous?”

 

Clara looks so horrified he feels relief flood him at once, watching her wrinkle her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.” She crosses her arms over her chest, frowning at him. If she were a bigger person, he might have been intimidated. As it is, he feels like he’s watching a wee child try to frighten him. “I’ve started to hear rumors, you know.”

 

“Of course you have,” he says, turning from her and stalking into his chambers. “You’re a maid. You gossip more than you clean.”

 

“I’m serious, John.” Clara follows him into his room, still looking troubled. “People have been talking about you and Melody. Not just maids but -”

 

“Me and Melody?” He abandons his wardrobe to stare at her, puzzled. “What could people possibly have to say about me and Melody?”

 

Clara looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot she’s ever seen, settling a hand on her hip as she explains slowly, “She’s a widow. You’re a lonely playwright. Think about it.”

 

“I don’t want to think about it, Clara,” he grits out, rapidly losing his patience. What is it with everyone he talks to today? They’re all obsessed with him and Melody’s business. “That’s why I’m asking you. What are they saying?”

 

Clara bites her lip and meets his gaze with reluctance, her brown eyes wide and apologetic. “They’re saying she’s your mistress. They’re saying you’ve been inspired by more than just her pretty face, that you’re paying to stay in her bed every night. That maybe you’re taking your fill of her daughter as well.”

 

John stares at her, lips parted in stunned silence, and can think of absolutely nothing to say. He should have known on some level. Nothing innocent stays that way for long in the eyes of the public. They take beautiful, precious things and twist them into something unsightly and wicked. Fury wells up inside him, making the blood rush in his ears and his hands clench into fists.

 

He wants to hit something. Namely whoever is responsible for spreading such vicious lies. How can anyone accuse sensible, independent Melody of such utterly scandalous behavior? He understands that at the moment he isn’t exactly London’s most popular playwright and he has never had anyone’s good opinion but for all of them to assume he would take advantage of a woman and not just any woman but _Melody_ … His Melody. His little muse. Even if he wanted to, she’d never let him. She’d slap him first.

 

And Amy. Little Amy Pond. How could anyone think something so vile? She’s just a girl. A young married woman and John is hardly her father but some days, he thinks he understand what it might have felt like to be Benjamin Pond. Exasperated and fond and just a wee bit proud when she loses her temper.

 

He wants to say all of this. If he had a piece of paper, he might have been able to. But being John, the man utterly incapable of expressing emotions properly without a pen in hand, he can only blurt out, “But I’ve never even seen Melody’s bedroom!”

 

“Of course not,” Clara huffs, looking at him once again like she’s never met anyone so dense. “I know that. But not everyone else does.”

 

“It’s none of their business,” he says gruffly, still fuming. He turns from her, wanting nothing more than to be finished with this conversation and forget it ever happened at all. He wants to put every single word of it out of his head. He yanks a clean shirt from his wardrobe and throws it onto his bed.

 

“That’s not how these things work,” Clara says, because of course she’s going to press the bloody issue. “You’ve got to be careful with her, John.”

 

“Careful?” He scoffs, searching idly for a pair of trousers. “She should be careful with me. The right hook on that woman -”

 

“ _John_ ,” Clara interrupts again, scolding enough to make him freeze. “A woman’s reputation is much easier to sully than a man’s but it isn’t so easily built up again. What about when you’ve finished the play? What will she do then?”

 

John stares sightlessly into his wardrobe, sullen and silent but listening.

 

“She’s got to have a life after you go on with yours.” Voice softening, Clara sighs and rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Make sure she’s got something to go back to.”

 

-

 

Amy’s scolding words and Clara’s warning stay with him long after he returns to Melody’s flat, keeping him up after everyone else has gone to bed. He turns the words over and over in his head, angry and confused, torn between what he knows is the truth and what others have been saying. Normally, he wouldn’t give a toss. He still wouldn’t if the rumors only involved him but Melody and her daughter are not gossip fodder.

 

Huddled on the settee, he opens his notebook and attempts to put the whole thing out of his mind for a while. He reads over his notes and makes a few changes to the draft, trying to write the next scene in hopes that it will distract him from fretting over Melody. For once, however, being in Melody’s flat and knowing that she’s just down the hall isn’t enough to make the words flow from his pen.

 

He tries anyway, agonizing over every sentence and word and nuance, hating all of it. He spends hours writing, growling to himself, tearing out pages and crumpling them up, tossing them onto the growing pile on the table in front of him. Nothing he comes up with is right. Nothing flows. All he can think about is Melody and everyone gossiping behind her back and what the bloody hell he’s going to do when this play is finished.

 

It’s so close now. He’s only a few scenes away from the end.

 

He’s fortunate Melody has allowed him to stay as long as he has but once the play is finished, he can’t impose on her hospitality any longer. He’ll have to leave. He’ll have to go back to his empty townhouse and stay there. As Clara said, Melody has a life to get back to. He can’t get in the way of that, no matter how much he may bristle at the thought of her having a life that doesn’t include him. She’s a complete pain in his arse but she certainly deserves better than a grumpy old playwright.

 

John sighs through his nose and viciously scratches out the line he has just written, dropping his pen onto the table to tear out the page and wad it into a little ball, tossing it away. “Shite,” he mutters. “Absolute rubbish.”

 

“Sweetie?”

 

He starts so violently at the sound of Melody’s voice that he nearly falls off the settee. He whirls, turning to glare over his shoulder. “What -”

 

He stops, staring at her, and feels the rest of his question die in his throat. Melody stands in the doorway of her bedroom, peering out at him with sleepy eyes and a little frown. She isn’t dressed, wearing only a nightgown that brushes her ankles but clings to her waist and her breasts. It’s a soft green that matches her eyes and he feels his mouth go dry. But not even that is the reason he can’t seem to find his voice.

 

For the first time since he met her, he can finally see what Melody’s hair looks like when it isn’t pinned up away from her face. Bouncing curls made golden in the candlelight tumble down her shoulders and over her forehead, slipping into her eyes like each ringlet has a mind of its own. It’s absolutely magnificent, like something that belongs on a wild lion instead of a woman. She looks like a painting, too lush and perfect and untouchable to be real. He stares at her, licking his lips, and feels his hands tremble as he curls his fingers into his palms.

 

She takes a step closer, brow furrowed in concern. “John? Are you alright?”

 

He finally blinks, forcing himself to look away. He stares down at the notebook still in his lap, his heart pounding erratically in his chest, and wonders if his face looks quite as warm as it feels. “What are you doing up?” He finally manages, his voice a soft rasp.

 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

 

He tenses as she pads softly toward him, rounding the settee to settle onto the cushion beside him. Waiting for her to get comfortable, he shrugs and thumbs through his notebook, watching idly as the ink-stained pages flicker before his eyes. “I was trying to finish a scene but it’s… not working.”

 

Melody hums and when he glances at her, she’s watching him in sleepy amusement. He feels his breath catch all over again and scowls, lowering his gaze to his knees. “I noticed,” she says. “I could hear you complaining in my sleep.”

 

He snorts. “Sorry I woke you.”

 

“It’s alright.” She yawns. “Do you want some tea?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Do you want some help?”

 

“No.” He sighs. “Go back to bed.”

 

She doesn’t move, of course. As stubborn as she is inspiring. Instead she curls up on her cushion, tucking her bare feet under her thin nightgown and leaning her head on the back of the settee, watching him with those eyes that always see right through him. “You’re almost finished, aren’t you?”

 

He flinches, nodding.

 

“What will you do? After, I mean.”

 

He shrugs again.

 

Melody nods slowly, biting her lip. “It’ll certainly be much quieter around here without you.”

 

He finally glances up, staring at her. “Me? It’ll be quieter without _you_.”

 

“That’s funny coming from the grumpy Scotsman who woke me in the middle of the night with his temper tantrum.” Melody raises an eyebrow at him. “Am I not performing my duties as muse sufficiently? The whole point of me is that you don’t get writers block.”

 

“The point of you?” He frowns. “You’re not a sodding tool, Melody.”

 

She smiles, tilting her head so her curls brush her arm, her eyes bright and sad. “I am to you, John.”

 

“What? No you’re -” Melody waves him away, unfolding herself from the settee and standing, holding out a hand to him. He stares at it warily. “What are you doing?”

 

“Helping you.” She takes his hand when he hesitates, tugging until he climbs to his feet and follows her to the middle of the room. “It’s my job, remember?”

 

“Melody -”

 

“Shh.” She steps in so close he holds his breath, tense and waiting. She pays him no mind at all, slipping her other hand into his and gazing up into his eyes with an expectant smile. “What? Do I have to lead as well?”

 

He sighs. “What are we doing?”

 

“We’re dancing, sweetie. Do try to keep up.”

 

With a glare, he tightens his grip on her hand and settles his other one on her waist, stoically ignoring the way his fingers burn where he touches her. “Why are we doing this again?” He asks, leading her into a measured waltz. She’s too close and she smells too tempting and if he doesn’t engage her in conversation, he doesn’t trust what he’ll do.

 

“Because,” she explains patiently, “If you stop thinking so hard about what happens next, perhaps it’ll come to you -”

 

“When I least expect it,” he murmurs, and she nods. “I knew you were my muse for a reason, Pond.”

 

She looks pleased, even more so when he twirls her around in a graceful whirl. She laughs, slipping her hand back into his and gazing up at him. “You’re quite good at this. Benjamin had two left feet, bless him.”

 

He tenses, his fingers tightening on her hip as he’s reminded once again of Clara’s warning. _She’s got to have a life after you go on with yours_. He swallows thickly and drops his gaze to the top of her curly head. “Will you marry again?”

 

Melody tenses too, suddenly a little less light on her feet. Her fingers flex in his grip and she stares at the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I loved Benjamin more than I thought I’d ever love anyone. I could never replace him.”

 

He nods. “Of course.”

 

She hesitates. “But… I think I could marry again. If the right man came along.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, his mind far away even as he leads her around the room with lithe, graceful steps. _Make sure she’s got something to go back to_. He’s been selfish long enough, latching onto Melody as the one thing in his life that made sense after his last disastrous effort. He has clung to her, taken everything she would give him and never once thought about what it might be costing her. She never said and he never asked. He’s never had to worry about anyone else before. There’s never been another he cared to be noble and selfless for but his little muse has done so much for him. If all she wants is a simple life, a chance to fall in love and remarry, he won’t take it away from her. She’ll never have that as long as he’s with her. And he won’t be selfish, no matter how he wants to be.

 

“John -”

 

“I could leave,” he says, quickly and before he can lose his nerve. “Tonight, if you like.”

 

Melody stiffens, leaning her head back to look at him so rapidly he’s certain he hears her neck crack. “What?”

 

“I could leave,” he says again, struggling to meet her gaze. “You’re hardly going to have gentleman callers when you’ve got me camping out in your parlour.”

 

“I wouldn’t have them anyway.” She swallows, her face pinched and flush. “Besides, you haven’t finished your play.”

 

“It’s just a play, Melody,” he says, and though it pains him to admit it, he knows it’s true. Nothing is worth sacrificing the happiness of the woman in his arms. Not even his precious work. He almost laughs, gazing into her wide eyes. He feels like an old man besotted for the first time in his life. She makes him feel like a young man. Even when he was a lad, he felt old. Old and selfish, building fences to keep everyone out. Melody Pond has changed so much.

 

“It’s the best thing you’ve written in years, you stupid man,” she snaps, and though he feels her try to slip out of his grasp, he tightens his hold on her and refuses to let go. “Why would you sacrifice that for -” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. Tears build in her eyes. “Who told you?”

 

He sighs, caught. “Amy. And Clara.”

 

Melody sets her jaw, her teeth clenched.

 

“I didn’t know,” he tries to explain. “You know how oblivious I am -”

 

“Oh shut up, John,” she scowls, still blinking back tears. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t care.”

 

“You don’t -” He tries very hard not to sputter like an idiot, gaping at her. “How can you not care?”

 

“Would you care?” She raises a challenging brow, her eyes narrowing. “If they were talking about you?”

 

“Of course not,” he snaps. “But it’s different. You’re -”

 

“What, John? A woman?”

 

He sighs, watching her wearily. “You have friends, Melody. A family.”

 

“And no one who matters is going to believe such _tripe_.”

 

He sees in the determined set of her jaw and the hardness in her eyes that there will be no changing her mind. He tries anyway. “Amy -”

 

“She doesn’t care what they say about her.” Melody shakes her head, and the fierce light in her eyes fades somewhat as she thinks of her daughter, replaced by a soft smile. “She cares because they’re talking about me. But that’s for me to worry about and I’m not. I don’t care what they say. None of it’s true. The play is what matters.” She swallows, staring at a loose button on his shirt, probably reminding herself to mend it later. “You’re what matters.”

 

John stares at her, his careful steps slowing to a stop. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks over the minutes. Outside, he hears a boisterous drunkard pass by on his way home. He swallows the lump in his throat and wonders if this is what it feels like to be cared for – to have someone put him first. “Alright,” he says, forcing his voice not to waver as he looks at her. “I’ll finish the play here.”

 

Melody relaxes instantly in his arms and the anxious lines on her face fade away, making her look years younger as she breathes, “Thank you.”

 

He nods and they go back to dancing, slower this time. He doubts it could be called dancing at all. Melody is closer than she was before, cradled against his chest as they sway together in the darkened parlour. John presses his lips into her hair and doesn’t think about writing. He thinks about Melody, warm and soft in his arms, the way she fights for the people she cares about – even if one of them is a tetchy Scottish playwright who won’t go home. “You’re not a tool,” he says again, fiercer this time. More certain.

 

“I’m the pen in your hand,” she whispers, sounding half asleep even as she argues with him.

 

It makes his lips twitch into a smile and he shakes his head. “You’re the light illuminating the page.”


	5. we move lightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For just a moment, her eyes flicker and she looks so unutterably sad he misses a step in their waltz. He stops, concerned, but then she smiles, bright and soft. Her hands slip from his to touch his face, warm fingers against his cheeks as she cups his face in her palms and says, “Congratulations, sweetie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the instrumental by Dustin O'Halloran

Tapping his fingers impatiently against his armrest, John stares across the desk at Mr. Lethbridge, willing him to speak. He finished reading the play five minutes ago and he’s been humming and murmuring to himself ever since, flipping through the pages to reread certain parts, squinting as he thinks. John has never been a patient man and sitting here waiting for the verdict on a play he has put his life’s blood into, the play he has lived and breathed for months, the play he uprooted his entire life for – Melody’s entire life for – is not something he can handle with grace.

 

“Well?” He finally huffs. “What do you think?”

 

His impresario takes his time shuffling the pages and placing them carefully on the desk, removing his reading glasses and wiping the lenses on the sleeve of his coat. When he looks up at John, his eyes are bright and his smile is wide enough to speak for him. “It’s incredible, John. It’ll make a wonderful production.”

 

“Ha! I knew it.” John collapses back into his seat with a pleased sigh, refusing to admit how relieved he feels. He’d known the play was good. It isn’t always easy to judge one’s own work but Melody would certainly have told him if it was rubbish. She’s gotten quite good at being painfully honest with him. “So?” He props his feet up on Mr. Lethbridge’s desk and smirks at him. “When do we start?”

 

“Not so fast, John,” Mr. Lethbridge offers his booted feet a glance of disdain. “There’s the matter of the gossip surrounding you these days. And the play, for that matter.”

 

John scowls, reluctant to speak of the whole blasted business. “A good scandal always increases ticket sales and you know it. It’s why Oscar is your favorite.”

 

Mr. Lethbridge sighs. “I do not have favorites. And Mr. Wilde’s success nearly isn’t worth the trouble he brings with him.”

 

“There won’t be any trouble,” John promises. He lifts a hand to fiddle with the loose button on the collar of his shirt and realizes Melody must have mended it at some point. Good as new. He drops his hand, feeling something in his chest tighten. “The rumors are unfounded bollocks.”

 

“So you’re not living with a widow and her daughter?”

 

“Well… yes.” John sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But that’s the only grain of truth in a barrel of shit.”

 

Mr. Lethbridge winces. “I see she hasn’t dulled your colorful vocabulary.” He glances back at the pages in front of him, rifling through them once more. “We should be able to start auditioning for parts in a few days time. I’ll send someone to fetch you when we’re ready. I have just one other concern…”

 

John lifts an eyebrow, dropping his feet from Mr. Lethbridge’s desk and letting his boots hit the floor. “Out with it then.”

 

Hesitating, Mr. Lethbridge takes a moment to scan the final scene of the play, mouth twisted in thought. “Don’t you think your overall theme might be better served if your female lead stayed with her employer? It would certainly be more satisfying for the audience. After all, their feelings for one another are quite obvious -”

 

John shakes his head, clenching his jaw determinedly. “The point was never how they felt about each other, Lethbridge. The point was two strangers finding each other when they needed someone most. The point was that not everyone you meet is meant to stay with you forever. Not everyone you lo - not everyone you _care about_ is supposed to be yours.”

 

Mr. Lethbridge stares at him, lips parted in surprise.

 

Feeling exposed, John rises to his feet and snatches up the pages of his play from the desk. “She has to leave,” he says. “It’s what’s best.”

 

-

 

Melody is waiting for him when he comes back and he puts the scene in Mr. Lethbridge’s office out of his mind, pasting on the wide smile she’s expecting to see. She looks up from her sewing as he walks in, wide-eyed and impatient. “Well? What did he say?”

 

He shuts the door behind him and reaches her in two quick strides, tossing her knitting aside and grasping her by the hand, pulling her from her seat. As he sweeps her into his arms and around the room, dancing her about her little flat with clumsy, exuberant steps, Melody clings to the lapels of his coat and lets her warm laugh caress his ears.

 

“Does this mean it was good news?” She asks, following his lead as they dance and looking up at him in amusement. “Or have you finally lost what little marbles you had left, sweetie?”

 

He hums along to the tune in his head. “Where are Amy and Rory?”

 

“Out,” she says simply, still gazing at him in that peculiar way of hers – as if she can see something no one else does. “Why?”

 

“Because we’re going out too,” he says. “To celebrate.”

 

Her eyes light up. “So he did like it.”

 

His smile turns smug. “Auditions begin this week.”

 

For just a moment, her eyes flicker and she looks so unutterably sad he misses a step in their waltz. He stops, concerned, but then she smiles, bright and soft. Her hands slip from his to touch his face, warm fingers against his cheeks as she cups his face in her palms and says, “Congratulations, sweetie.”

 

She leans in to kiss his cheek but his heart is still racing and his mind is full of the play and Melody and _not everyone you care about is supposed to be yours_ and perhaps just this once, it doesn’t have to be true. Not when Melody is warm and soft in his arms, not when she smells like citrus and ancient dust. Not when he suddenly feels so determined to keep her, to cling to her as selfishly as he promised himself he wouldn’t. Her mouth brushes his skin and he inhales sharply, turning his head. Their lips touch and he hears Melody breathe in, feels her lashes against his cheek – waiting.

 

She’s been waiting for him all this time. _If the right man came along._ Christ, what an old bampot he’s been. John smothers a grin against her lips, crushing his mouth to hers and wrapping a hand around the back of her neck, keeping Melody close. Not that she seems eager to go anywhere. She grips his collar and presses sinuous curves against him, parting her lips with a little sigh that shoots straight through him, making heat curl up and settle in his stomach. If the sun had a taste, he imagines it would be exactly like Melody, all bright light and warmth. He can detect just a hint of her bitter tea underneath and he grips her tighter, his hand inching into her curls as he groans. He could bask in her, in the soft slickness of her mouth and the lush daydream of her lips, and never want for anything else.

 

He finally breaks from her with a gasp, his fingers trembling as they wrap around her curls. “On the other hand, staying in has its rewards.”

 

Melody smiles.

 

“I owe all this to you, you know.”

 

She shakes her head, their noses brushing. “You wrote every word, John.”

 

“You wrote it,” he argues. “I just moved the pen across the page.” Her eyes soften and he has no choice but to kiss her again, closing the short distance between them to brush his mouth against hers again and again, until Melody finally grows impatient and sucks his lower lip into her mouth. He growls, fingers tightening in her hair, and kisses her properly, swallowing her giggles. “My little muse,” he whispers, and the words are bursting with pride and fondness and something else he isn’t quite ready to put a name to just yet.

 

Flushing, Melody drops her gaze and he chuckles softly, guiding her once more into a dance. If he wasn’t so caught up in his own elation, he might have noticed the way her smile faltered when he wasn’t looking.

 

-

 

Auditions are a sodding nightmare.

 

Filling in the smaller roles is easy enough but no one quite manages to fit the two leads and John isn’t willing to settle for just anyone, not when the play means so much to him. Not when his reputation is once again on the line. So he sits through countless auditions, bored stiff and hopeless at hiding it.

 

For a while, he insists Melody accompany him just to alleviate the monotony – he also hopes having her opinion will help him make some decisions about the cast –but the disapproving looks he gets from Lethbridge every time they stop listening and start whispering to each other instead eventually puts an end to the whole thing. Melody is getting busier anyway with preparations underway. They’re both spending more and more time apart, but still in the same place. The theatre becomes a second home, with Melody always backstage sewing costumes with the other seamstresses and John overseeing auditions and staging.

 

It keeps them apart more often than not but on the day when he finally discovers the perfect female lead, he makes the girl stand on stage and clutch her notes while he hurries off to find Melody. She’s backstage and in the middle of sewing sequins onto the bodice of an old dress to make it look new and shiny again but when he bursts into the room, she looks up with thread between her clenched teeth and a needle in hand.

 

“Get up, get up.” He strides toward her, ushering her out of her seat. “I’ve found her.”

 

Melody swats him away with a scowl, setting aside her project to give him her attention. “Found who?”

 

“The female lead,” he says. Ignoring the stares of the other seamstresses in the room, he presses a hand to the small of her back and guides her along. “She’s perfect.”

 

Melody frowns, digging her heels in once they reach the corridor. “Then what on earth do you need me for? I’m a little busy, sweetie.”

 

“I need to know what you think.” He always needs to know what she thinks these days. He’s surprised he can even get dressed in the morning without asking her sodding opinion. He should hate it. He really doesn’t. He pushes her through the heavy double doors leading into the main theatre and spots the girl still waiting in the middle of the stage, fidgeting anxiously. “It’s important.”

 

“Me?” Melody sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s your play, John. If you think she’s -”

 

“It’s our play,” he corrects with a grumble, and gently nudges her into his seat, hovering behind her. “Now shut up and listen.”

 

Melody crosses her arms over her chest and huffs, turning her attention to the stage. “Well carry on then.”

 

The poor lass onstage looks to him, wide-eyed.

 

He waves a hand at her. “You heard the scary one. Speak.”

 

In his seat next to Melody, Mr. Lethbridge finally speaks up. “John, this is hardly -”

 

“Shh.” John scowls fiercely at him and Mr. Lethbridge sighs, settling back in to humor him.

 

Melody listens to the girl’s monologue for only a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against her armrest, before she murmurs, “Bit young, isn’t she?”

 

“Young?” John glances at the girl again, scrutinizing her. He hadn’t really paid attention to her age before. She looked how he wanted the female lead to look – dark hair, bright eyes, weary weight on her shoulders like life had let her down more than she could bear. She looked exactly like the tired but fierce, ill-tempered woman the male lead would look upon and see himself. He would take her in. He would love her. And he would eventually let her go. He blinks hard, turning away. “I suppose. But she looks the part. She can make me believe what she’s saying. Isn’t that more important than how old she is?”

 

Melody shrugs, studying her nails. “If you say so, sweetie. You’ve certainly auditioned your fair share of young girls.” She lifts her head, smiling thinly. “I trust your judgment.”

 

He scowls. “If you don’t like her, I’ll keep looking.”

 

“No.” She stands quickly, smoothing out her skirts. “We’ve put it off long enough, haven’t we?”

 

“Put off wha -”

 

“She’ll be brilliant in the role, John.” She straightens his cravat for him, smiling, but even John with his terribly limited emotional skills, can tell it isn’t quite genuine. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

 

He settles a hand on her hip to keep her from going anywhere just yet, though he knows they shouldn’t be quite so affectionate in front of others. He’d promised Lethbridge the rumors were just that and the last thing he wants to do is lend any credence to them. But Melody is rather impossible to resist, even when she’s cross with him.

 

She stiffens at his touch like she knows they shouldn’t either but after a moment, she leans in just a little, barely enough to be noticeable to anyone but him. “You’ll be home for dinner?”

 

His heart leaps at the word and he stifles a smile, nodding. “Of course.”

 

“Good.” Her smile turns a little more genuine and mischievous as she slips from his grasp, eyes sparkling. “See you soon, sweetie.”

 

He watches her go, waiting until she disappears through the double doors and backstage before he sinks back into his seat. Mr. Lethbridge watches him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. John frowns at him. “What?”

 

“One grain of truth in a barrel full of -”

 

“Oh shut up.”

 

He told Melody he would be home in time for dinner but it takes longer than he expected to extricate himself from the goings on at the bustling theatre. When he finally manages to pull himself away, dinnertime has come and gone. He lets himself into the shop and up the back stairs, easing open the door and slipping inside.

 

Reading on the settee, Amy and Rory glance up at his arrival and to his utter confusion, Amy’s gaze noticeably cools as their eyes meet. “John,” she says, and returns to her book without waiting for a reply. Rory offers him a half-hearted wave, looks guilty about it, and goes back to studying.

 

Confused but too tired to ask, John leaves them be and heads for the kitchen, where Melody leans against the counter and waits for him with her arms crossed. “You’re late.”

 

He takes off his coat and drapes it over a chair, sauntering up to her and crowding her space. “Yes, dear.”

 

Her breathing hitches at his nearness, her green eyes darkening. She licks her lips, tipping her head up to look at him. “It’s rude.”

 

He nods, his nose brushing hers. “Yes, dear.”

 

“Going to apologize?”

 

He shakes his head and kisses her, his hands on her hips to pin her against the counter. Melody sighs against his mouth, lips parting with ease against the gentle insistence of his tongue. One taste of her is enough to make him groan quietly, entirely forgetting about Amy and Rory wherever they are as his kiss turns rough and heated, his hands beginning to wander. He likes to feel her beneath his hands in these brief, stolen moments together. He’s determined to familiarize himself with the feel of Melody over the soft fabric of her dresses – the indent of her waist, the lush curve of her hips, the forbidden brush of his fingertips against the tantalizing swell of her cleavage. This way, he reasons, he’ll already know what he’s doing if he ever persuades her to remove the bloody thing.

 

Melody pushes him away and he growls, dropping his face into the dip of her shoulder. She laughs softly, carding her fingers through his silver hair. “I kept dinner warm for you.”

 

He grunts, breathing her in.

 

“Don’t get used to it.”

 

Snorting, John finally pulls away from her and smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

“Good boy.” Melody leans up on her toes and kisses his jaw. “Amy and Rory are going to a party tonight. I thought we might -”

 

He flexes his jaw, looking at her with regret and a touch of self-loathing. Christ, of all nights to be away from her. “I have to go back to the theatre. It’ll be late when I’m through, so I thought I might just sleep at my place tonight. I don’t want to wake you.”

 

“Oh.” Her face falls, her eyes flickering with something unnamed and troubling for a moment, but between one breath and the next she’s smiling at him again, shrugging her shoulders like it doesn’t matter in the slightest. “Alright then. Some other night.”

 

He kisses her temple in apology and murmurs, “I’ll make it up to you.”

 

She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You better.”

 

He eats dinner quickly and grabs his coat, kissing Melody again on his way out. She kisses him back and waves goodbye at the top of the stairs when he leaves but she’d been quiet while he ate, watching him too closely and too solemnly for comfort. Something is off, he knows. He just doesn’t have time right now to figure out what it is.

 

As he walks to the theatre, hands in his pockets and Melody on his mind, he tells himself things will slow down eventually, once rehearsals are over and the production begins. He’ll have time to spend his evenings with Melody and maybe even his afternoons again too. Tonight will be his first night away from her in months. He already misses her. He’s been missing her for weeks. He misses following her about her day, misses her quiet presence and her witty, smart arse remarks when she’s fed up with him. He misses late night tea and Melody’s warm honey laugh. He misses dinner with her and her nosy, protective children. He misses being a part of a family.

 

It’ll get back to that again soon, he tells himself. It has to.


	6. impossible opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most nights, he even sleeps at the theatre, slumped over a desk in his temporary office. Melody is busy too, sewing costumes when she isn’t working at the shop. John barely sees her any more. Tonight, however, he’s determined all that will change. Because it’s finally here – opening night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the instrumental by Nick Ingman.

Between overseeing rehearsals and all the preparations that come with readying the play for public consumption, John spends the weeks leading up to the premiere at the theatre more often than he does Melody’s flat. Most nights, he even sleeps there, slumped over a desk in his temporary office. Melody is busy too, sewing costumes when she isn’t working at the shop. John barely sees her any more. Tonight, however, he’s determined all that will change.

 

Because it’s finally here – opening night.

 

He’s been on edge and crankier than usual all day, knowing that tonight will decide once and for all what his place in this business will be – the failure who had a good play once by sheer dumb luck or the mad genius every producer in London is salivating to work with. He spends the day at the theatre, snapping at Mr. Lethbridge, snapping at the actors, snapping at even the stagehands, but as he walks home that evening, he quietly admits to himself that part of his mood is sheer bloody impatience. He wants tonight to be over with. Not to receive recognition from peers and critics. Not to bask in their praises. He just wants to get back to the life he has carved out for himself in the last few months – Melody and her ridiculous children, the too-small flat they all share. After tonight, he’ll have them back.

 

When he arrives, the play starts in an hour and Melody still isn’t ready. Her hair is still up in pins and she’s padding about barefoot, dressed in her slip. It reminds him of the day he met her and he ends up staring at her from the doorway of her bedroom, feeling too soft and besotted to complain.

 

Without glancing up from her vanity mirror, she asks, “Need something, sweetie?”

 

He shakes his head, stares at her for another long moment, and then blinks hard. Ah, right. He scowls. “We’re going to be late.”

 

“We’re not.”

 

“We are,” he says, striding into the room. He hovers over her shoulder and the heavy weight of his gaze finally forces her to meet his eyes through the mirror. “We need to go. You look fine.”

 

She snorts and waves him away. “That’s sweet, honey.”

 

“But -”

 

She pauses with a little pot of rouge in her hands, glaring at him in the mirror until he deflates and turns on his heel, stalking back out into the parlour again. He paces under the watchful gazes of Amy and Rory, who have settled onto the settee to wait.

 

Hands behind his back, he checks his watch every few minutes and grumbles under his breath. “Bloody woman is going to make me late for my own sodding play.” He whirls to scowl at her closed bedroom door and shouts, “It’s not a bloody fashion exhibit, you know!”

 

“Why don’t you just go without her?” Amy glares at him from her spot beside Rory, looking cross but lovely in a new gown Melody had made for her. “I wouldn’t want you to miss all your adoring fans.”

 

He frowns at her. Amy has been full of sneering remarks and sheer bloody spite for weeks now. Just when he thought they were finally starting to get along, she turned once more into the suspicious, protective young lady he’d encountered in the park. He rather misses her silly antics. Instead of snapping at her, John merely sighs. “She’d have my head if I left her. On a platter.”

 

“So would Amy,” Rory mumbles, dodging his wife’s elbow.

 

Checking his watch one last time, John sinks into the chair by the window and settles in to wait. There is no rushing Melody Pond, as he learned quite some time ago. She’ll be ready when she’s ready and no amount of complaining or cajoling will hurry her along. As long as she’s done within the next fifteen minutes, they won’t be late. They just won’t be there early.

 

 John likes being early to his plays. He likes finding the perfect spot backstage to observe the audience before the curtain rises. That won’t be necessary tonight. Tonight, he’s going as a member of the audience. Melody has never seen one of his plays up close before, always lurking backstage during rehearsals. He’s surprised he never noticed her before. She deserves a front row seat and it’s exactly what he’s giving her – with him as her date. It’ll certainly get the rumor mill going again but as long as Melody doesn’t mind, neither does he. He wants to be seen with her. He wants everyone to recognize his little muse for what she is – his light and inspiration. Tonight is her night just as much as it is his.

 

So he’ll sit right here by the window and keep his mouth shut until she’s ready.

 

Thankfully, Melody doesn’t make him wait long.

 

With five minutes to spare, she steps out of her bedroom in the gown she’s been working on all week and though John vaguely recognizes that the dress is very becoming and Melody is really quite the seamstress, it isn’t the dress that captures and holds his attention. It’s Melody _in_ the dress. It clings to her like a second skin, flaring out at her hips and down the back, the bustle cascading in rivulets of emerald green silk to pool on the floor. It makes her eyes luminous. It makes her hair… her hair. Christ, her hair is only half up, pinned away from her face with the green hairpin she’d probably nicked from Amy again. She’d left the rest of it spilling over her shoulders in golden waves. It’ll be utterly scandalous but he has a feeling Melody doesn’t care. She never does.

 

She steps into the parlor with a smile that is entirely her – smug and knowing but still somehow uncertain all the same – and gives him a little curtsy. “What do you think?”

 

“I…” He tries and fails to find his voice.

 

“I think that means you look nice,” Rory supplies helpfully from the settee.

 

John offers him a withering glance.

 

Melody bites her lip, still watching him.

 

Standing on unsteady legs, he takes a hesitant step toward her and Melody meets him the rest of the way, standing so close the hem of her dress sweeps across the toes of his shoes and the scent of her perfume invades his senses, making him feel heady and light. John breathes in deeply and reaches out a hand to pluck at one of the curls resting against her shoulder. “Your hair,” he says, and can’t quite finish the thought.

 

Melody understands anyway and her smile softens. “You prefer it down.”

 

“Yes, but -”

 

“It’s your night, John.” She straightens his cravat out of habit, her fingers gentle and sure as they brush his throat. “You like it?”

 

He swallows. “I think you’ll do.”

 

She looks pleased, like she knows he means something else entirely that he can’t possibly say in front of her children. It’s one of his favorite things about Melody. Despite his communicational shortcomings, she always knows. He offers her his arm and she takes it, still beaming.

 

Her playful mood lasts all through the carriage ride. She sits directly beside him, her arm linked through his and her head on his shoulder. Despite Amy and Rory sitting right across from them, John finds that he still can’t resist turning his face into her hair and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. This night is what they’ve been working toward for months. He’s determined to enjoy it. And he tries, despite the stares they receive the moment they enter the building.

 

Melody keeps her head high and her hand in his, looking resplendent and regal and entirely above their gossip even as those around them steal glances and whisper behind their hands about John Smith’s famed muse. She isn’t smiling any more and he can feel through their linked fingers exactly how tense she has become. He glares at anyone he catches looking at them – a little bit proud when he finds Amy doing exactly the same – and guides Melody through the lobby and into the theatre, escorting her to their seats right in front of the stage.

 

She doesn't say much, tense and quiet beside him until the lights lower and the curtain rises, signaling the beginning of the show. After that, she’s enraptured. John watches her more than he watches the stage, far more interested in seeing her reactions than anything he’s seen during rehearsals a hundred times over. He doesn’t even watch the audience to gauge their responses. For the first time he can remember, he simply doesn’t care. Melody’s opinion is the only one that matters.

 

Her reactions are everything he’d hoped for. She smiles and laughs when she should, claps along with the audience during intermission and all through the last act, she watches things play out with a film of tears in her eyes, her trembling lips pursed. John feels his chest tighten and reaches for her hand, kissing her knuckles through her silk glove.

 

She glances at him as the curtain falls. The audience rises to their feet with thunderous applause but they stay seated, staring at each other in the dark. Melody looks at him like she’s never seen him before – or rather like she never will again. She blinks tears from her lashes and her gaze is distant and a little lost as she squeezes his fingers, offering him a smile that wavers.

 

“Perfect,” she says simply.

 

It’s the only critical acclaim he needs.

 

-

 

“And the governess – such a strange, dark creature. Who was your inspiration for her, John?” Lady Cassandra smiles knowingly around her champagne flute, exchanging a glance with her husband. “Was it your darling little muse we’ve heard so much about?”

 

John tightens his grip around his drink, struggling to keep his frozen smile from twisting into an unfriendly snarl at the old hag. His inspiration for the characters in his play has been the talk of the night and he’s absolutely sick of all the blatant innuendo about Melody and about his relationship with her. He takes a long, slow pull of the whiskey in his glass and bares his teeth in the approximation of a smile. “Not hardly, I’m afraid. Melody is nothing like her.”

 

“Really?” Lady Cassandra leans into the arm her husband wraps around her waist and watches John with sharp, gleaming eyes. She’s the biggest gossip in the whole of London and he knows she’s simply fishing for a story, something delicious to tell her circle of old biddy friends. “I find that difficult to believe. Everyone knows how smitten you are, John. Surely you put her in your play somewhere.”

 

“I did,” he admits, eyeing her with thinly veiled contempt. “But she wasn’t the governess.”

 

Cassandra sips her champagne, brow raised. “Well who was then?”

 

“Me.” He smiles grimly, nods to her husband and says, “Excuse me.”

 

He turns on his heel and walks away. Within moments, the crowd swallows him up. It’s easy enough to hide. For the first time in months, his townhouse is filled with people. All the high society twats who had disappeared when his last play ended up a flop have gathered in close again at his latest triumph. They fill every room, holding flutes of champagne and toasting his successful opening night. While he would really like to toss them all out on their arses, it’s an unfortunate fact of show business that he needs their patronage. So he makes nice, meandering from room to room and making small talk rather than doing what he’d like – holing up somewhere with Melody to celebrate privately. It’s bloody torture.

 

He isn’t quite sure where Melody slipped off to but he hasn’t seen her in hours. She’d stayed by his side for a while, hand on his arm as he accepted congratulations and discussed the play in depth with more curious guests. She’d been undoubtedly bored to tears. John certainly had been. Eventually she’d squeezed his hand, given him a smile and abandoned him to his fate. He hasn’t seen her, Amy or Rory since.

 

Surely she hadn’t left the party without him.

 

Quite through socializing, John wanders from room to room searching for Melody, ignoring well-wishers and offering terse nods in place of handshakes and greetings. He roams the entirety of the first floor and doesn’t spot her anywhere so he ascends the stairs and breathes a sigh of relief when the cacophony of chatter fades the higher he climbs. By the time he makes it all the way up and through a second story corridor, he can barely hear the party at all.

 

“Melody?” He calls out softly, sighing when he receives no answer. “Melody, where the bloody hell are you?” She doesn’t reply verbally but when he pauses in the corridor to listen, he hears the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging through his bar car and rolls his eyes. In his study then. He opens the door and slips inside, shutting it softly behind him. “Melody Pond hiding from a party? Is the sky green too?”

 

She looks up with a frown, perched on the edge of his desk with her drink in one hand – whiskey of course because Melody is not a champagne kind of woman – and a piece of paper in the other. She waves it around, raising an eyebrow. “Funny how it all started with this.”

 

Recognizing the paper now as the letter she’d written all those months ago, John stares at her. “What are you doing with that?”

 

“It was on the desk,” she says. “I wasn’t snooping.”

 

“I didn’t say you were.” He takes a step toward her and Melody stiffens, putting the letter aside, shoving it under a paperweight and turning away from it. He watches her take a generous gulp of her drink and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. Sometime during the course of the night, she’s lost her silk gloves. He stays where he is, eyeing her cautiously, unable to shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right. “Melody -”

 

“I’ve never been in here before,” she says, glancing around with a smile. “I’ve never been in your house at all. You’ve practically lived in mine though, haven’t you? Got to keep your lives separate.”

 

He frowns. “What are you -”

 

“I don’t like it,” she interrupts again. “Your house, I mean. It’s a bit too ostentatious. And it’s sort of lonely, isn’t it?” She wrinkles her nose and Christ, he realizes, breath catching in his throat. She’s drunk. “Is that what you are, John Smith? Lonely?”

 

“Once,” he admits, cautiously. “Not now.”

 

“Well, it’s a bit impossible to be lonely with all these people around, isn’t it?” She finally looks at him, her eyes gleaming and her smile just a little crooked. “They love you again.”

 

“I don’t care about them,” he snaps. “The entire lot of them can go hang for all I care.”

 

She hums like she hadn’t heard him at all, crossing her legs and taking another drink. “They’re horrible, you know. I’ve spent half the night fielding inappropriate questions about the nature of our relationship and the other half turning down offers.”

 

“Offers?”

 

Melody looks at him again, smirking. “Yes, sweetie. _Offers_.”

 

He clenches his jaw. “Who -”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” She waves him away with a sloppy hand gesture, shrugging. “I _am_ sorry for the wine stain on your rug in the sitting room but Mr. Harkness deserved it.”

 

“Yes,” he says, gritting his teeth. “I dare say he did.”

 

“Anyway, I got tired so I came in here. I thought I’d wait for you to notice I was missing and come find me. It’s been two hours.” Melody drains her glass. “I’ve almost finished your whiskey.”

 

He strides across the room to the bar car to check and bloody hell, sure enough there isn’t but a few fingers of whiskey left in the decanter. He slams it back down and whirls to glare at her. “Is there a reason you’re trying to drink yourself to death?”

 

“Don’t be dramatic.” She gives him a withering look and sets aside her glass. “I’ve ten times the tolerance for alcohol that you have. Call it a perk of the working class.”

 

If he hadn’t already known something was off, the bitterness in her voice would have been a clue. He straightens, spine stiffening and jaw clenching as he watches her. Something has been wrong all evening – hell something has been wrong for weeks – but he hasn’t had the time to address it. It seems to have only gotten worse in his neglect.

 

“Alright,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his hair. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing at all, John.” She hops from her perch on his desk and wobbles only a little, straightening her skirts. The half of her hair she’d pinned away from her face is escaping its elegant twist at the back of her head, slipping from the emerald pin to tumble into her eyes. She huffs a few curls away and smoothes a hand over the bodice of her rumpled gown. “I believe it’s time for me to go, that’s all.”

 

“Wait a moment.” He holds up a hand and takes a step back toward the door. “I’ll get rid of everyone and take you myself. You need to sleep off that -”

 

Melody shakes her head vehemently, curls whipping against her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your night and all these people are here for you. You should enjoy it. It’s what you’ve worked so hard for – their recognition.”

 

He shrugs, dropping his gaze from her all-knowing eyes to stare at his shoes. He had worked tirelessly all these months for exactly this but he can’t help noticing it feels a little empty now that he has it. Having the approval of the masses once again doesn’t mean as much as he thought it might, not when he’s found something better. But Melody is right. It won’t do to alienate the people who make his profession possible. He sighs. “At least take the carriage. Where are Amy and Rory?”

 

“Oh, they left hours ago.”

 

Melody yanks the pin out of her hair and tucks it into her bodice, leaving all of her wild hair free to tumble over her shoulders and into her face. In the warm light of his study, with her dress slipping off one shoulder and her eyes heavy with whiskey, she looks every inch his little muse. Ravishing. John swallows heavily.

 

She turns to him, smiling softly. “I’m a big girl, sweetie. I can see myself home.” He stands absolutely still as she sways toward him, the hem of her dress slipping over the toes of his shoes once more, like the tide swallowing up everything in its path. He breathes in the scent of her perfume and the citrus that always clings to her skin, drinks in the warm sunlight of her presence. Melody places her small hands on his chest and leans up her toes, pressing her lips against the corner of his mouth, lingering sweetly. “Goodnight, John,” she whispers. “It’s been… inspiring.”

 

He frowns, catching her wrist as she moves away. She freezes, watching him with wide eyes as he studies her. “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

 

She deflates, less happily drunk as she looks away. “I suppose I am.”

 

His heart climbs into his throat. “No. I - why?”

 

“Oh, John.” She sighs, glancing up at him with a melancholy smile. “We both know this isn’t going to last, even if you’re too repressed to say it out loud. So I’m doing us both a kindness. I’m ending it.”

 

It hurts, deep down in his chest where he’s been storing every ounce of precious affection for the woman in front of him. The place he’s been storing affection his whole life, hoarding every scrap because he never wanted to give it away to anyone. Until her. He’s been handing it to her, piece by piece. In every kiss, every cup of tea, every waltz around her little parlour. Melody Pond has been the sole beneficiary of John Smith’s admittedly limited supply of tenderness. And now he’s watching her toss it all away like it means nothing. His chest feels like she just reached inside and tore away what he had left, leaving him empty and cold and _angry_.

 

He sets his jaw, feeling his eyes narrow and the words in his throat sharpen into jagged points meant to wound. “We both knew, did we? I wish you’d been _kind_ enough to tell me weeks ago and saved me the trouble of having to give a damn.”

 

“John, we don’t fit.” She looks up at him with wide, wet eyes and he wrenches his arm away from her touch, glaring. “We never have. I thought -” She shakes her head, pursing her lips. “But I was wrong. And I knew it tonight. I knew at the theatre and spending hours here with these people, these _vultures_ , I knew again. You’re a very wealthy, very talented playwright and I am a working class seamstress. The thought of us together is ridiculous.”

 

He flinches, glaring at the floor. “So we can’t be together because I have money and you make your own dresses? Do you realize how fucking insane you sound?”

 

“I know how this works,” Melody wipes roughly at her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing her rouge as she sniffs. “I’m just your muse. The moment I stop inspiring you, the moment I’m no longer an intriguing mystery to you, you’ll be off and on to the next fascinating woman. You’ve already begun to pull away – you have been for weeks. And I can’t bear another second of it.”

 

“Stop it,” he snaps, pacing away from her. “Just sodding well admit it, Melody.”

 

She stares at him helplessly. “Admit what?”

 

“That you’re jealous.”

 

Still gaping at him, she sputters, “Jealous?”

 

“Yes.” He whirls to face her, his expression hard and his stare cutting. “You’re jealous because I’ve spent more time at the theatre than with you lately. You’re jealous because tonight, for the first time since we met, you’ve had to share me with everyone else. You’re not the center of my bloody universe at the moment -”

 

Melody is across the room before he can blink, her hand striking out and slapping him soundly. He jerks back and stumbles into the bookcase behind him, knocking a few heavy volumes onto the floor. Her chest heaves and her voice trembles as she hisses, “How dare you.”

 

John clutches his smarting cheek and watches her eyes water.

 

“I have given you everything, you ungrateful bastard. My time, my reputation, my _heart_. All so you could finish your sodding play!” She shoves at his chest, pushing him into the shelves again and sending another book tumbling to the floor. “You take and you take and I don’t have anything left to give you!”

 

He stares at her, the back of his head aching from colliding with the bookshelf and his heart stuck somewhere in his stomach. “I don’t -”

 

“You’ll find yourself another little muse to inspire you, John.” She shakes her head tearfully, tangled curls slipping down her back as she turns and makes her way toward the door on unsteady legs. “For her sake, I hope she’s more careful with her heart than I was.”

 

The door to his study slams shut behind her and John sags against the bookshelf, his knees weak and that place in his chest where love used to reside hollowed out and empty. Downstairs, the party goes on without him.


	7. the best thing you've ever stolen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the way, between late night cups of tea and watching her sew costume after costume, listening – even if sometimes it was with a roll of her eyes – to his every concern and complaint, Melody Pond had become his reason for being at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Unless I decide to post that mini-epilogue type deal. Let me know in the comments if you're interested.
> 
> Chapter title from the instrumental by Hans Zimmer.

It takes him a few sleepless nights to understand how she could walk away after everything and when he does, John wants to upend every bookshelf in his study. He never told her how he felt. As if the woman was a sodding mind reader and she’d just know. She usually did. Melody always knew everything he couldn’t manage to put into words but this one thing – the most important thing – and she hadn’t realized. She was so much more than just his muse. Somewhere along the way, between late night cups of tea and watching her sew costume after costume, listening – even if sometimes it was with a roll of her eyes – to his every concern and complaint, Melody Pond had become his reason for being at all.

 

In her absence, he attends all the high society parties he’s invited to and allows himself to be fawned over, drinking far too much. It takes at least a few glasses before he can switch off the need to crawl into some dark room and hide. He goes through the motions instead, showing everyone the biting, caustic persona they’ve come to expect from him. He is beloved again by all those who used to matter and in many a performance worthy of one of his plays, he never lets on that he just doesn’t give a damn any more.

 

He never lets on that he’s sodding well miserable.

 

At least not until he stumbles home – no, not home because home is smaller and louder and smells like oranges – in the wee hours of the morning. He collapses onto the nearest horizontal surface and stays there, sleeping like the dead until Clara finds him in the afternoon and drags him to bed.

 

When he isn’t whiling away the night hours with vapid conversation and mixed cocktails, John locks himself in his study and tries fruitlessly to write. Everything he tries is complete rubbish and ends up in a crumpled pile of papers across the room. He hasn’t been able to write a damn thing since she left.

 

Slumped at his desk and nursing a godawful hangover, John massages his temple and stares at the blank page in front of him, blinking numbly. He wonders how bad Melody’s headache had been the morning after drinking his whole bottle of whiskey by herself and if Amy and Rory had taken care of her. They always do. Even from an oblivious old man who couldn't get his head out of his arse long enough to see Melody never really thought she meant anything at all to him.

 

What are they doing right now? John pushes away his notebook and closes his eyes. It’s early but Melody has probably been up for a while, making tea and breakfast because it’s her turn. Amy and Rory will just be tumbling out of bed at the smell of bacon and toast, already bickering good-naturedly. Melody is probably in her slip, padding around barefoot with her hair only half up. She’ll be late for work, pointedly ignoring Mr. Lux opening up the shop downstairs and calling for her to _please hurry up why can’t you ever be on time Ms. Pond?_ He feels his lips twitch into a smile and snaps his eyes open, shaking away thoughts that make his heart squeeze in his chest.

 

How easily they’ve probably resumed their lives without him. It doesn’t seem fair when he’s still reeling from the loss of them. He misses Melody. He misses her stupid kids and her ghastly small flat. He misses the way she never let him feel sorry for himself and kept him on his toes. He misses the way he never had to fill the silence with useless small talk. He misses the way _sweetie_ tumbled from her lips as easily as words from his pen whenever she was around.

 

He should have told her how he felt.

 

Closing his notebook with a growl and setting it aside, John reaches for the letter always kept beneath it. It’s nearly worn out from his frequent rereading but it’s all he has left of her so he cherishes it, treating it with as much reverent care as Melody does all those dusty antiques. He skims the letter, his eyes lingering on his favorite part at the end. _You are a valuable, important part of this world. Particularly mine._ His eyes sting and he drops the letter, scowling. Christ, he really has bollocksed up this time.

 

He taps his fingers against the edge of his desk, glaring into space until he hears the unmistakable sound of Clara’s soft footsteps on the stairs. With a sigh, he straightens and runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to look like he hadn’t been up all night and that he most certainly is not hungover. He isn’t in the mood for a scolding from a pint-sized nanny.

 

She opens the door without knocking, which only worsens his mood. He frowns at her as she sweeps in with a smile, carrying a tray filled with warm, rich-smelling breakfast foods he has absolutely no interest in. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Well, assuming you actually slept last night.” She settles the tray on his desk and looks at him properly, hand on her hip as she scrutinizes his face. John does his best not to squirm. “Judging by your bloodshot eyes, I’m going to go with no.”

 

He shrugs, picking at a piece of toast with raspberry jam. “I wasn’t tired.”

 

She shakes her head, sighing. “You need to sleep, John. And eat something, for god’s sake. You’re wasting away in here.”

 

He pokes at the jam on his toast and brings his fingertip to his mouth, tasting it. “There. Happy?”

 

She glares. “I will shove it down your ungrateful gullet if I have to.”

 

He sniffs. “I’d like to see you try. Look at you, wee and pocket-sized, you are. I could step on you.”

 

“I’d like to see you try,” she parrots, baring her teeth at him. She reaches for the bundle of papers tucked under her arm and tosses them onto his desk. Some of them spill off the edge and onto the floor. “You’ve got letters from your adoring public, a complaint from Mr. Wilde, invitations to another slew of parties and more reviews in the paper. All positive, in case you’re wondering.”

 

“I wasn’t,” he mutters, and picks up the only thing of interest to him on the tray – a cup of tea. Snatching up the little plate of sugars, he dumps nearly all of them in and watches them dissolve in the steaming cup. “Is that all?”

 

Clara hesitates, biting her lip as she watches him. “People have been coming to call -”

 

“I told you to send them away.”

 

“And I have been,” she huffs. “But I can only do that for so long before you’ve got to start being a part of the world again, you idiot. You’re going to lose the support of everyone who makes your bloody plays possible if you don’t get it together.”

 

“Then I’ll stop writing plays,” he says. “Become a magician. There’s a coat in my wardrobe that would do nicely.”

 

“You can’t stop writing, you big pillock.” Clara snorts. “It’s the only thing you’re good at.”

 

“Thank you,” he says dryly.

 

She beams. “You’re welcome.”

 

He scowls and sips his tea with far too much sugar, determined to ignore her until she leaves. She’s mad if she thinks he cares any more about parties and kissing arse to sell more tickets. Hell, he barely cares about his writing at the moment. Everything seems so utterly dull. He takes another sip of tea and scalds his tongue, grimacing. He just wants Melody.

 

Clara huffs loudly, throwing up her hands. “So go and bloody get her then!”

 

He starts, setting down his tea so violently it sloshes over the sides of the cup and burns his fingers. He barely notices, gaping at Clara and wondering if she can read minds. Now that would make an interesting story…

 

She sighs, eyeing him in amusement. “You were thinking out loud again.”

 

Bollocks. He scowls. He really needs to work on that.

 

“John? Did you hear me?” She waves a hand in front of his face. “Why don’t you just go after her? Grovel at her feet.”

 

He picks up his tea again. “It’s too late for that.”

 

“Doesn’t have to be.” She tucks her hands into the pockets of her apron and leans against his desk. “So you’ve been an idiot, yeah?”

 

“To put it lightly, yes.”

 

“Alright, so you need a grand gesture.” She smiles widely, looking so sure of herself John can’t help but feel a little of her optimism bleeding into him against his will. “What about ordering a bunch of flowers and sending them to her with a lovely note?”

 

He scoffs. “What’s so romantic about flowers? They wither and die. Is it supposed to be symbolic?”

 

Clara taps her chin thoughtfully. “Is there something she’s been wanting but can’t afford? You could have it sent over -”

 

“Melody isn’t the materialistic sort,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “She makes her own dresses and nicks whatever she likes from the shop when she thinks I’m not watching.”

 

Clara snorts. “Alright, what about a pet? If you show up on her doorstep with a puppy -”

 

“You mean another mouth for her to feed?” John gives her a withering look. “Yes, she’ll be delighted. Honestly, are you even trying?”

 

Exasperated, Clara snaps, “Well if you know her so well, you tell me. What would impress her?”

 

He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. Melody isn’t impressed by much. She never cared for his wealth and only seemed annoyed when he did anything remotely extravagant, like paying all those pounds for a watch he didn’t want just to appease Mr. Lux. His reputation did little to impress her either. She didn’t care for all the people he knew or the places he was invited for dinner. In fact, the only thing she ever seemed to care about was -

 

John pauses, his eyes skittering to the letter still lying on his desk. He inhales sharply and licks his lips. “Clara, get out.”

 

“What?”

 

He waves her away, eyes flicking up to hers briefly. “Out!”

 

She scowls, leaning over his desk to smack him on top of the head. “Oi, rude! I’m doing this for you, you know!”

 

Fending off another swat, John stands and rounds his desk, ushering her across the room and out the door with hurried, impatient movements. “Yes, and you’ve been a tremendous help, now go away. I’ve got it.”

 

In the corridor now, Clara whirls to shout at him some more but he closes the door in her face and locks himself inside, sighing in relief. Alone in his study, he turns on his heel and stalks back toward his desk with a smile. He sinks down into his chair, rubs his hands together gleefully, and picks up his pen.

 

-

 

For the second time in his life, John finds himself once again on the doorstep of Melody Pond’s flat, clutching pages of his own writing and hoping he won’t be turned away. His hand shakes when he knocks and he absolutely loathes himself for it. Christ, what has she done to him? He should turn around and run back down those stairs and out of the shop before she turns him into any more of a pathetic sap.

 

And then the door swings open and it’s far too late to do anything but ask for mercy.

 

Melody stands in the doorway, gripping the frame as she stares at him, frozen and unblinking. She’s in her slip again, he notes with amusement, and he has missed the sight of her so much that he finds he can only stare, drinking her in and feeling lighter for her presence. Even if she turns him away, this moment will be enough to sustain him for at least a fortnight. Perhaps he’ll just take to stalking this street, lingering behind buildings and trees in hopes of just a glimpse of her to keep him going. She tilts her head, her eyes going cold, and he swallows. “What are you doing here, John?”

 

His fingers tighten around the pages in his hand. “I… miss you.”

 

Her expression crumples, all that coldness falling away and leaving the vulnerable, strong woman he knows in its place. “I told you, I don’t have anything left to give you.” She watches him with pity and absolutely none of the anger he had been expecting. It’s astounding how quickly this woman manages to find forgiveness in her heart. She never lets bitterness fester and grow, moving on too quickly to ever let anything ugly take root. It’s another reason why he needs her. “And I have no interest in being a muse any longer. I just can’t.”

 

He swallows again, nodding as he ducks his head. “I know,” he says gruffly. “And I would never ask you to but… I have just one more thing I’d like you to read.” He looks up again, his eyes pleading, and finds her already staring at the pages in his hand with trepidation. “And then I swear I’ll leave you alone for good if it’s what you want.”

 

Her eyes flicker and he feels hope flare bright all through him at the sight of it. No matter what she says or what she does, the thought of parting forever from him pains her just as much as it does him. If nothing else, he has that to cling to.

 

Still, she hesitates, glancing between him and the pages. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, sweetie.” His eyes widen and she presses her fingertips to her mouth at the slip, shutting her eyes briefly with a trembling sigh. “You need to go, John.”

 

Feeling his heart plummet, he takes a step toward her, hand outstretched, but stops when she stiffens. He stares at her in silence, working his jaw and trying to find something to say that will appeal to her better nature when it comes to him. Downstairs, the bell in the shop jingles and another customer strolls in. Behind Melody in her flat, he can hear noise from the streets through her open windows. And all John can think of to say is, “Please.”

 

She bites her lip, meeting his gaze with wide, wounded eyes.

 

“Please, Melody.”

 

She sighs through her nose and squares her shoulders, swallowing. “Alright, John.” She holds out a shaking hand for the pages. “Give them to me.”

 

He hesitates. “I thought we might read lines together, like… like we used to.” He clears his throat, shrugging in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “It helps me visualize the scene.”

 

“Oh.” She nods stiffly, shuffling a little closer. “We’ll share the pages, then.”

 

“No need.” He shakes his head and takes a step back because no matter how much he wishes to be close to her at the moment, it won’t do to have her too uncomfortable and on edge to listen to him. She _needs_ to listen. It’s his only saving grace. “I know what to say.”

 

Smiling tightly, she says, “Right then. When you’re ready.”

 

He looks at her intently, right into her eyes until he can see the flecks of blue and gold in them – until he sees the exact moment they begin to water – and then he asks, “Can you ever forgive me?”

 

Melody blinks at him, startled, until she realizes he’s saying his line. She glances at the page and her voice trembles as she reads her own part. “You’ve so many things to be pardoned for. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

 

“I’ve acted unconscionably.” He watches her lift her head from the pages in her hands to look at him, pale with the dawning realization that he has tricked her into listening to him. He keeps talking before she can throw the pages in his face and shut the door on him. “With no thought spared for your feelings or desires. I’ve been a selfish cad and so careless with your heart. But I’ve come here to tell you that you were wrong that night. Do you remember what you said?”

 

Reluctantly, she reads her next line. “I said a lot of things.”

 

“Just. You said you were _just_ a muse.” He licks his lips, and what he wants to say is on the tip of his tongue but he has to force the words out. Vulnerability has never been a pretty color on him. “You were wrong. You were never just anything. Not once. Not even when all I knew of you was a letter without a face behind it. And you’ve only grown to mean more to me every day since then.”

 

“John, stop this -”

 

“That’s not your line. Read your line, Melody.”

 

 She sighs shakily and drops her gaze back to the page. “Those are pretty words, Mr. Smith, but what of your actions?” She looks up again and her eyes widen to find him not standing before her as he’d been only a moment ago but kneeling on bended knee at her feet. “Oh my god. John -”

 

“I haven’t done anything worth a damn since you left and I never will again if you don’t come back.” He swallows, tipping his face up to look into hers and every bloody inch of him is shaking like a leaf, certain she’ll turn him away. He has to try. He’ll never rest if he doesn’t at least try. “You saved my life once, you know. And you _were_ right about one thing. You’ve done nothing but give ever since.”

 

Melody stares at him, one hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.

 

“I want you to take something from me now. My last name isn’t much, a bit common, as a matter of fact. Nothing compared to the grandness of Pond.” His lips twitch at her tearful snort. “But I’d like you to have it, all the same. Marry me, my wee little muse. Become my infuriating wife and I’ll never take from you again, I swear it. Nothing but your heart in exchange for mine.”

 

Melody blinks away tears, studying the page in her hand. “It isn’t finished,” she whispers. “What does she say?”

 

“I’m not sure. Writers block, you see.” He lifts an eyebrow, still gazing up at her. “I thought you might be able to help.”

 

She bites her lip and he’s relieved to see that she’s struggling against the urge to outright grin at him. The knot of anxiety in his chest comes undone at the sight and he feels like he can breathe again for the first time since she walked out of his study weeks ago. “If I say yes,” she begins slowly, a smile finally starting to take over her face. “Will you stay there just like that until Amy gets back? She’ll want to see this.”

 

He huffs, shifting a little to take some of the pressure off his increasingly sore knee. “Melody -”

 

“What?” She laughs, that warm musical laugh that makes him tremble all over again. “I rather like the look of you down there.”

 

“You know,” he grouses, frowning up at her. “We’ve been apart so long I’d started to forget all your flaws. I’m beginning to wonder why I wanted to marry you at all.”

 

“Too late, sweetie. You’ve already asked me.”

 

And with that, she tosses the pages aside and grips him by the collar of his coat, yanking him to his feet and into her. He threads his hands through her hair with a sigh and his kiss is rough and biting and not at all what a kiss should be after a proposal but he can’t help himself. Melody doesn’t seem to mind, grinning into his mouth and nipping at his lower lip like a minx. His breath hitches as they part and he nuzzles his nose softly against hers, rumbling, “Stuck with you now, am I?”

 

She smiles, fingers performing the familiar gesture of straightening his askew cravat. “For life, darling.”

 

Tracing a thumb over her cheekbone and smiling when Melody leans into his touch, he promises, “I’ll make it a good one then.”

 

“You’d better.”

 

She kisses him again and John sinks into it with the new and sudden realization that all the best stories are never even written down at all. They’re far too busy being lived.


End file.
